


The Girl Geniuses

by Chairtastic



Category: BioShock Infinite, Girl Genius
Genre: Canon Divergence - Burial at Sea, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Crossover, Mad Science, Multiverse, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Realpolitik, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chairtastic/pseuds/Chairtastic
Summary: "There are rules." "Even for one such as you." The Lutece twins knew from experience, they had returned to see their own bodies, attend their own funeral, and spoke with the man who took their obituary photos. But they'd found a way back to being quantum superpositions. How? Science, specifically mad science.





	1. Together in Paris

 

>  
> 
> \---The House of Comstock's heraldry previously consisted of a Sword, Scroll, and Key.  Now, it is a bird and cage.
> 
>  

 

“I fail to see how this is any of our concern,” a Lady said in a tone of mild annoyance.  Her back was to their guest, propped up against the stern of their rowboat.  “The girl made her choice; as you said, it was her cross to bear.”

 

A Gentleman, working the oars of the boat as was their arrangement, kept his response even.  “I had thought you’d come to my way of thinking, that things could be changed.”

 

“With the caveat that afterward one would wish one had not.”  The boat rocked suddenly with the waves, causing their guest to fall forward and slightly to the left.  The Lady had to turn and prop her back up before the Gentleman would respond again.

 

“Do you recall how we learned of the rules,” the Gentleman asked, met by a clipped reply from the Lady.

 

“Trial, and error.”  A fog horn sounded in the distance, giving the Gentleman a point of reference for his rowing.

 

“Quite.  But perhaps we can spare her the necessity of such?” His response was equally clipped.  “That dreadful man’s choice of words, about Issac Newton and his cat seemed rather apropos of our situation as well.”

 

“I seem to recall being coerced into that situation.  Rather similar to this, in fact.”

 

“If you would _like_ , I can see this through myself.”  The long silence was a suitable answer for him.  “Perhaps she will not return to what she was before, and will be content to stay where we leave her.”

 

“Perhaps.  Or perhaps we will create a need for a second hairshirt.”  They had come to their destination, a fog covered stone dock.  The Lady exited first, while the Gentleman carefully lifted their guest up to rest on the dock before departing himself.  “Let’s hope the apple has rolled away from the tree, in this case.”

 

The Gentleman hefted their guest up over his shoulder while he answered.  “I admit, I’ve grown rather fond of the girl, she reminds me of a younger, more foolish us.”

 

“ _Certainly_ more sanctimonious.”  The Lady led the way up a flight of stairs from the docks.  As if it had never been, the fog lifted away as a walking contraption of metal, smoke, and lightning ambled down a cobbled street.  Where there had been silence, suddenly there was fantastic noise, a bustling city, full of light and life.  Amongst the colorful crowds, where a pair of men were casually walking on small clouds produced by a water bubble on a leash, a green-eyed monster haggled for bread, and other such fantastic things, a Lady and a Gentleman carting a corpse through the streets passed unnoticed.

 

In relative silence they walked through the streets, seemingly uninterested in the sights, sounds, or wonders they beheld.  They were stopped at a gate built in the art nouveau style by a stately dressed gentleman with a badge depicting a serpent on his lapel, and asked their business for the day.

 

“We have an appointment with the ressurectionist, and admissions,” responded the Lady, producing a receipt from her jacket, to hand over to the Serpent man.  “Under the name R. Lutece.”  The Serpent inspected the receipt, before handing it back and wishing them a lovely stay.  “Were that all policemen were so polite.”

 

“Politeness does not equal competence,” responded the Gentleman as they continued through the gates, as if they were insubstantial.  The university was immaculate, the grounds a testament to the profound arts and sciences being studied.  They passed a fountain based around a sphere of brass-encased lightning which produced a shower of strange orange and purple flowers to float on the surface of the water, and witnessed rowdy students scuffle with pistols that fired the elements themselves.

 

Their target building sparked with lightning held in elaborate containers of glass and brass along the white stone edifice, arranged in such a way to provide an aesthetically pleasing decoration for the pseudo-Roman design.  Along the top of the doorway was the word: “Résurrection”.  Once inside they were greeted by a lavish interior of wall to wall carpeting, green and gold wallpapers occupying half of the wall and polished walnut the rest of the way, elaborate golden light fixtures that held balls of lightning instead of bulbs, padded seats around the room’s edge, and a dozing student in a lab coat at a desk behind a partition.  The Gentleman set their guest down in one of the seats, while the Lady roused the student by ringing a provided bell.

 

Despite their appointment, it would be a considerable length of time before they would be called to the back.  Once called into the back rooms, they were escorted through the hallways by another student, in full operating room dress, telling them things they already knew about the procedure, facility, and doctor performing the resurrection.  The Gentleman handed their cadaverous guest over to the student once they arrived at the operating room, and directed to the gallery above.  The operating room was full of bizarre gadgets and chemicals, which the Gentleman and Lady paid no mind to.

 

The ressurectionist, Dr. Goodwin, instructed his students to place the cadaver on the slate which was the focus of the room, and tie her down.  Others joined the pair in the gallery, students taking notes and bystanders hoping for a show.  The Lady and Gentleman sat ramrod straight, looking down at the students adjusting equipment while the doctor rambled about the girl’s injuries.

 

“Sharp force trauma along the front of the abdomen, right breast, and waistline,” he said in French, his voice amplified by the speakers for easy hearing for the guests.  “Appears as curved lines, roughly conical in shape.  Struck by some sort of bladed drill, I wager.  Broken spinal column, shoulder blades, and two punctures to through the chest, from behind.  Could one of you hazard a guess as to the situation this poor girl found herself in.”

 

“It sounds, doctor, that a spark’s creation struck her with a drill into a wall, and some rebar pierced her from behind, leading to her death,” a student with his back fully to the scene, examining the clothes they had taken off the cadaver for the operation.

 

“A most interesting hypothesis, Holzfäller, I expect a description as to your reasoning after the operation.”  The guests began to gossip in the gallery, quietly so, but gossip all the same.  The Lady and Gentleman took only cursory notice when a strumpet tried to involve the Lady in their conversation. “She is fully exsanguinated, determine her blood type from the stains on her clothes, and put the plasma pump on the necessary settings.”

 

“Do you suppose,” the Gentleman said to the Lady, “that her power will manifest as the post revivification rush?”  The Lady ‘hmm’ed to herself while tilting her head in thought.

 

“Most likely,” she said at length.  “We should do our best to mitigate what she can pull through.”

 

“The facility doesn’t seem to be prepared for a sudden tornado on the inside, no.”  The two returned to silence, watching the cadaver below stuck with needles, filling various fluids into her.  “Do you suppose she has the Spark?  We’ve seen that people who enter this particular suite of realities can develop it.”

 

“Unlikely,” the Lady’s tone was dismissive, she craned her neck for a better look as a metal helmet lined with bulbs and hoses was affixed to the cadaver’s head.  “For all of her _quirks_ , the girl hasn’t shown evidence of being mad.”

 

“Are we in a position to tell if one is mad or not?”  The Gentleman and Lady locked eyes for a moment, otherwise silent, before breaking in unison.

 

“That could prove troublesome.”

 

“Flip… the switch!”  Dr. Goodwin declared, his voice imperious, but laced with hysterical glee.  A smocked student hastened to obey, and a moment later the operating theater was filled with loose arcs of electricity.  The cadaver twitched and contorted as the lightning fed directly into her, fortunately not lighting her hair afire.  The mad doctor laughed, throwing his hands into the air.  “Yes, _live_!  _Live_ madmemoiselle….”  His laughter stopped dead in its tracks while he turned to a student.  “Holzfäller, what is the patient’s name?”

 

The same student from before checked a chart on a clipboard, hanging from a meathook in the corner.  “Mademoiselle Elizabeth Comstock, professor.”

 

“Thank you.”  He resumed his manic laughter as if some fresh madness had taken hold.  “ _Live_ , mademoiselle Comstock!  _Live_!”  His laughter continued until a feminine scream joined in - from the cadaver.  Above the screaming corpse, a rift in space took shape, a distortion from which light poured in, along with a distant, shrill cry.

 

“Of course she would find the one reality where he still lived,” the Gentleman complained as he and the Lady stood, vanishing from the gallery in a flash of lightning.

 

“Fascinating that his life exists outside of Comstock’s own,” the Lady said as they reappeared in the operating room, unnoticed by the doctor or students.

 

“Document this!”  Dr. Goodwin shouted to the students, eyes fixed on the growing rift in the air.  “Document this, you worthless minions!”  The Lady and Gentleman flanked the screaming corpse, who rapidly became not a corpse any longer.

 

“Dear girl, can you hear us?”  The Lady asked conversationally, placing her hand in the spasming girl’s own.  The younger woman gripped it like a vice, but the Lady didn’t seem to care.

 

“You are perfectly safe,” the Gentleman assuaged, mirroring the Lady’s gesture.  “There is no need for rescuing.”

 

“Elizabeth!”  A voice from behind the distortion above called, parting enough to reveal an older man, in pinstriped pants, black shirt, and a vest with a pistol in one hand, and fire in the other, charging forward.

 

But before he could reach through, the distortion shrunk, and withdrew entirely from existence.  The arcing lightning came to an end, as did the former cadaver’s screaming.  The Lady and Gentleman remained in their position on either side of the girl, while Dr. Goodwin continued to laugh while examining her.

 

As if the Gentleman did not exist, Holzfäller stepped into his space, passing through his body like the Gentleman was insubstantial.  The student removed the helmet from the girl’s head, then opened her eyes to shine a light in.  The girl’s first non-screaming breaths came raggedly, coughing often.  “Professor, the patient does not appear to be experiencing a post-revivification rush,” the student called over his shoulder.

 

“Then she will have to stay in the medical wing overnight,” the doctor chortled while keeping his eyes where the distortion had been, and rubbing his hands together.  “If we’re lucky, she’ll die and require our services again.”  The Gentleman and Lady looked at each other; there was an unsteady tone to the doctor's words.

 

The girl remained on the slab for several minutes while the machines injecting liquid continued to pump, and the students prepared a gurney for her travel.  The girl tried to talk more than once, coughing severely for the effort.

 

“Mademoiselle,” Holzfäller said to her, voice stern, “your right lung is pierced in two places, and still requires an operation to seal properly.  Please refrain from speaking until then.”  The student relaxed a bit, as he saw the girl’s fearful looks around the room.  “There is no need to fear, you are in the Paris Institute of the Extraordinary, the best Sparks in all Europa will see you well.”

 

“Paris?”  The girl choked out the one word before Holzfäller tutted her, attaching a mask with a corrugated hose to her lower face.

 

“And this time,” the Lady said to draw the girl’s attention, “it is not some hallucination to facilitate your self-flagellation.”

 

“Though,” the Gentleman chimed in, “if you still feel the need to self-flagellate, we can direct you to a studio to do so with professional advice.”

 

>  
> 
> \---Formerly the rulers of Columbia, the Comstocks have a history of suicidal heroics, manipulation, skulduggery, and lateral thinking.


	2. Chapter 1: Higher Learning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Principles only matter if you stick to them when it’s inconvenient.”

 

 

 

 

\--Chapter 1: Higher Learning.

 

 

 A Lady and a Gentleman followed after the gurney carrying their mutual associate to the medical wing of the Paris Institute of the Extraordinary.  The good student, Holzfäller, explained to his patient the operations she would need to undergo as part of her recovery - unaware that he was being followed.

 

“Your entire spinal column is severely damaged, that’s why you cannot move your legs at present,” he explained. The Lady and Gentleman noticed that despite his strongly Germanic looks, he had no accent while speaking french.  “Now, the lack of a post-revivification rush means you’re revival is _unstable_.  I am going to hook you up to a life support unit, which will hopefully keep you alive until a surgeon is available to operate on you.”  A nurse met them halfway, guiding Holzfäller to an empty room, where the girl was swapped from the gurney to a proper bed.  The walls were lined with equipment, to which he attached the tubes from the plasma pump, and the air hose.  The nurse took a woolen blanket from a chest at the foot of the bed, to throw over the girl.

 

Holzfäller left once additional machines were powered up to track her heartbeat, breathing, and pain.  His parting words were of confidence on her recovery.  The Lady and Gentleman stood at her bedside, unseen and untouched by either the student, or nurse.  When the three were alone, the two parted, to adjust dials on the machines, pry open panels and mess with their insides - as if they knew what to do instinctively.  Behind her oxygen mask, the girl winced and grunted from the adjustments, but several moments later she relaxed.

 

“No thanks are necessary,” the Lady commented to the girl’s expression.

 

“But are certainly appreciated,” finished the Gentleman as the two finished their work and return to stand shoulder to shoulder.  As if waiting on an unknown signal, they watched the girl in silence.  Her breathing evened out under their gaze, and the pumps tied to pain relief began to pump autonomously, where before they’d needed a button press.  “She appears to be fully lucid,” he said after the girl turned her head laboriously to regard them.

 

“Then let us begin,” the Lady’s tone shifted from neutral to clipped.  “Young lady, that endeavor in that awful sunken city was foolhardy.”

 

“You needlessly risked your life to help out complete strangers,” the Gentlemen followed up immediately, his tone equally clipped.

 

“You walked into death, knowingly, to try and improve the lot of a single child whom you’d previously regarded as a pawn.”

 

“Your father would be absolutely ashamed of you.”  There was a pause.  As it dragged on, the Gentleman slowly turned to look upon the Lady, whose face was set in stone.  He returned to looking at the girl, and sharply elbowed the Lady in the ribs.

 

The Lady gave the Gentleman a withering look for a moment before also returning to look at the girl.  “Which is why… we are so very proud of you.”  The two changed their body language, from stiff backed figures merely observing the girl, to taking her hand in all four of theirs.

 

“Despite being told all you would lose.”

 

“And all you would suffer.”

 

“You still elected to help those you’d hurt.”

 

“Even if you wished you had not.”  The pair backed away, releasing the girl’s hand and resuming their stiff-backed poses.  “Now, as for explanations….”

 

The Lady and Gentleman explained at length about their current location, not geographically, but universally.  A suite of realities where the world had taken vastly different paths; Europe in their world was Europa in the present.  The world was ruled by mad scientists, who possessed within them a Spark of genius which allowed them to create impossible things to various degrees.

 

Creations of Sparks were everywhere, ranging from the inane to terrifying.  And in Paris, there were an abundance of Sparks.  Paris was one of the few ‘safe’ cities in Europa, one of the fewer safe cities not under the authority of a tyrannical ‘Baron Wulfenbach’.  With the young Miss Comstock unable to ask questions, their information on the subject tapered off.

 

“Now,” the Lady said afterward, “you’re wondering why we arranged this procedure.”

 

“There _are_ rules,” the Gentleman confirmed.  “Even for ones such as us.”

 

“But for every rule, there is a loophole.”

 

“But loopholes can be abused.”  The Gentleman departed the bedside vigil to go to the window, draw the curtains, and dim the lights.  The sun had set, and it was night.

 

“Before we informed you of such loopholes, we needed to know the strength of your character.”

 

“We needed to know you were better than your father.”  The Gentleman returned, staying strong under the sudden glare from the girl.

 

“And fortunately for us….”

 

“... you left options regarding corpses.”

 

“We opted for the one without head trauma….”

 

“As it’s _dreadfully_ difficult for the doctors here to reverse.”  They had started to finish each other’s sentences.

 

“Now you are in the city of your girlish dreams.”

 

“Free to spend your days here, or to return to omniscience.”

 

“Either way, we are going to attend to matters.”

 

“Don’t go anywhere.”  The girl blinked, and they were gone, as if they had never been in the first place.  She was alone with the beeping equipment, and a dark room.  However through the windows, she could see the faint silhouette of a tower she vaguely recognized, and a city resplendent with lights.  The sight was comforting in a bizarre way, and she drifted to sleep moments later.

 

 

> \---The Comstock sparks have a tendency to lean toward cryptography.  Either as a focus or a hobby.

 

The Awful Tower, the Lady and Gentleman noted, was colorful even ad night.  Seeming to be made of interconnected glass containers, each filled with a different colorful substance and lit from within, the Tower was both a laboratory, and a decoration.  As they made their way into the tower, and up the elevators, they passed people.  Some of them staffers of the Master of Paris, some of them agents who served the Master in unofficial capacities, some of them merely citizens admiring the beauty of the structure.  However all of them saw the Lady and Gentleman enter, walk through and call the elevator for the Master’s throne room.  The Lady and Gentleman knew, by the witnesses observing them, that the Master would be aware of their arrival.

 

As expected, when the elevator let them out into an utterly enormous room lined with windows, there the Master was.  He was twice the height of either the Gentleman or the Lady, and twice as wide as the both of them.  He wore a heavy green coat, with gold buttons and trim with his sigil embossed on them - four orbs within a circle.  The collar of his coat was an expanse of white fur which completely enveloped his head and neck, drawing contrast to his dark skin.  One eye was gone, replaced with a green lense.  And he looked decidedly unhappy to see them.

 

“Lutece,” the Master growled, resting his substantial hands upon the arms of his throne.  Around him pipes from the chair sparked with lightning, and small glass baubles filled periodically with neon blue light only to empty.

 

“Voltaire,” the Lady responded.

 

“You are looking well for your age,” the Gentleman complimented, as the two bowed to the Master.

 

“And you are looking well for dead,” the Master said back to them, irked.  “After two hundred years, you return unannounced, with a young woman who can tear open holes in the air.”  The Master stood, perhaps in an attempt to intimidate the two as he loomed over them.  “Why?”  Neither the Lady or the Gentleman appeared intimidated by his response, which seemed to enrage the Master even more.

 

“To enter said young woman into your city’s university,” the Lady said with clipped tone.

 

“If you would rather we take her to _Mechanicsburg_....,” the Gentleman started only for the Master to swing for him, the man’s enormous hand phasing through him as if he were insubstantial.

 

The Master looked from his hand, to the Gentleman and growled.  His one eye narrowed while he spoke.  “You would cavort with the _Heterodyne’s_ monsters?”

 

“We are all monsters, Simon,” the Lady sighed more than said.

 

“You, your master, and your King simply failed to comprehend that,” the Gentleman followed up.

 

“But comprehension, or lack thereof,  does not negate the truth.”  The Master’s hands clenched and shook, but he sat back upon his throne.

 

“There was a time when he was your King as well,” the Master said at length.

 

“Quite.  Back when he was a man worth following.”

 

“And decidedly less green,” the Lady chimed in.

 

“And omnicidal.”

 

“That does tend to reduce one’s Kingly-ness.”

 

“Enough of your snark,” the Master growled, holding his hand up to stop them talking.  “You want the girl - Mademoiselle Comstock, was it?  To attend my university?  Why come here, why let yourselves be seen?”

 

“Because, there appears to be some….”

 

“Bad blood,” the Gentleman cut in.

 

“... between us.”

 

“You let him be betrayed by that… _thing_ ,” the Master growled out, gripping the arms of his throne enough that his knuckles grew pale.

 

“Whom he chose to marry…”

 

“... was his Royal prerogative,” the Gentleman finished.  “He wouldn’t have listened to anything we would say.”

 

“And he didn’t.”  The Lady callously informed the Master.

 

“And he doesn’t.  Lives, lived, will live.”

 

“Dies, died, will die.”

 

“How can you know, when you didn’t-.”  The Master cut himself off.  The Lady and Gentleman knew what his question was, and chose to pursue the question as if it had been asked.

 

“Because in other oceans, we did try.”

 

“And he failed to listen.”  The Gentleman flippantly flicked his hand.  “He always refuses to see reason.”

 

“Back to our being here,” the Lady sidestepped, to reveal a suitcase on legs, which the Gentleman opened.  Inside were ingots of silver, stamped with an angelic woman holding a sword in one hand, a scroll in the other, with a key at her belt.  “Sufficient funds to pay for multiple years of schooling.”

 

The Gentleman reached behind his back, and drew out a manila folder, far too large to have been hidden there.  “A list of the curriculum assigned to her in lieu of formal education.”  The folder was placed with the silver ingots.  The Lady then added a book with a stylized L, portraits of the two on either side, and the title ‘The Lutece Field’ all across the cover.

 

“And all material relating to the ‘holes in the air’ she can create.”  The Master rested his chin on his thumb, his index finger curling in front of his mouth.

 

“And what do you aim to do about that bad blood, hmm?”  The Master’s voice was less enraged than before, almost tired.

 

The two looked between one another, before addressing the Master again.  “To make up for what we didn’t say two hundred years ago,” the Lady started.

 

“We will give counsel to you,” the Gentleman followed up.  The Master considered the proposition for a moment before signalling them to proceed.  “In regards to your part in the play….”

 

 

> \---They are inordinately adept at hiding things away, to be rediscovered in times of crisis.

 

The surgeries were underway.  His sister watched the affair, keeping young Elizabeth’s power under control.  Like the affair with the man in the lighthouse, it required only one of them to complete the task.  And like the affair with the man in the lighthouse, his sister had the stronger stomach for blood.

 

The Gentleman stole through the locker rooms of the surgeons to find the one whom they entrusted the girl’s life.  He traveled as a ghost, unseen and unimpeded by physical obstacles.  When it came to the desired locker, that of Holzfäller, he had no need to open it to deliver the contents.  A conical flask of a glowing yellow liquid, with a decal of a shield decorated with stars and stripes with an L at the center.  Alongside the flask, the Gentleman left a note.

 

‘Tell Klaus our business is settled.  - R. Lutece.’

 

One more debt paid, he returned to his sister.

 

> \---They also have a proclivity toward creating their own enemies.

 

After her surgeries, Elizabeth spent weeks recovering in hospital.  She’d only needed a day in a recovery tank, and after that could be confined to her bed.  The Lutece twins had been by to see her, leaving things such as the books for her coursework, pens and paper for the written assignments she could still do from her bed, and a wardrobe of clothes for when she was allowed a room in the dormitory.  The staff always seemed puzzled as to how she had gotten them, allegedly increasing security several times to catch her mysterious patrons, but to no avail.

 

One of the first bits of herself that she was able to get back was the thimble for her pinkie.  Dr. Goodwin said that the static electricity from some of the machines helping her recover would catch on the thimble and shock her, so when they were not needed anymore he allowed her to wear it.  The doctor had been kind to her after she woke up to see him messing with her life support machines during recovery.  The Luteces had been there at the same time, and passed their hands through his head as if they were ghosts.  Dr. Goodwin had gone into a seizure seconds later, and when he recovered, treated her with far more respect.

 

The history of new world she found herself in was fascinating, as was the way the Sparks had altered the very landscape.  She’d almost thought the world was in a melted ice cap scenario from the way Great Britain had appeared on the maps.  But the most fascinating information to read about was Paris, Europa’s Paris.  The differences and similarities to the Paris she’d read about in stories.  France as a nation didn’t exist, at least not anymore.  The Eiffel Tower was the Awful Tower now, and even though it didn’t have the same graceful beauty, the sparking lightning and colorful glass catching the light were wondrous in their own way.

 

And once she was cleared to have guests, she was bombarded with fellow students who came to chat with her.  They usually assumed she was an Englishwoman, from her name.  The truth got them even more excited; Elizabeth rapidly learned that Columbia was an alternative name for the American continents, and had to work hard to correct them.  The idea of a floating city was surprisingly accepted among the students, with more than one asking if it was similar to ‘Castle Wulfenbach.’  However, Elizabeth had never seen such a flying castle, so couldn’t tell if the comparison was accurate.  She had never been so popular since Battleship Bay, she’d realized at one time.

 

Back when she was recently freed from her tower.  Back before she’d been tortured, humiliated, lied to, and murdered.  Twice.  Apparently the realization had driven her to cry, because the students who had been chatting with her apologized and offered her handkerchiefs.

 

After they’d left, Elizabeth went to work.  Maths, language, history, these were topics she could handle from her bed and so she started on the assignments for those courses right away.  It would be less work for her to do once she was ambulatory again.  Elizabeth found herself lost in a world of academia for an unknown length of time, until a gentle knocking at her door brought her back to reality.  The medical staff didn’t bother with knocking except Dr. Goodwin.  “Come in,” Elizabeth called, a little hoarse from talking up a storm earlier.

 

The man who entered in was decidedly not Dr. Goodwin.  A far younger man, and less portly, with vivid red hair, spectacles, and rich tailoring.  Elizabeth vaguely suspected the man to have dyed his hair, but didn’t comment on it.

 

“Hello,” she greeted, setting her papers and books aside to make room on the chair at the bedside.

 

“Greetings, Dame Comstock,” the man greeted in perfect French, bowing and moving to sit beside her.  Elizabeth flinched at the combination of words, she’d long accepted her surname, but the title reminded her of her mother.

 

“Please, I’m not the Dame Comstock, my mother-”  The young man cut her off.

 

“Ah, I understand.  My name is Aaronev Tarvek Sturmvoraus, my father is Prince Aaronev, I get much the same treatment.”  The bespectacled man offered his hand to shake, surprising as none of the other students had.  She shook his hand, as firmly as she could with her infirmity.  “Please, call me Tarvek.”

 

“Lovely to meet you, Tarvek.”  Elizabeth gave him a smile, while examining him.  “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you shake my hand?”

 

“I wanted to greet you as an equal,” the Prince smiled back at her.  “This is, as far as I can ascertain, the first meeting between the royal family of Sturmhalten and people of Columbia in two hundred years.”  Elizabeth’s confused expression didn’t perturb Tarvek in the slightest.  “Your expression leads me to think that something’s amiss with that statement?”

 

“Columbia didn’t exist two hundred years ago,” Elizabeth responded slowly.  “At least, the Columbia I knew didn’t.”  Tarvek reached into his vest and produced for her a silver coin.  On one side an angel holding a sword in one hand, a scroll in the other, a key hanging from her waist, and the word ‘Columbia’ across the top, and the date ‘1900’ on the bottom.  “This is… a Columbian silver eagle.”

 

“The Columbians on record,” Tarvek said after taking back his coin.  “Were quite odd.  Appearing and disappearing at will.  Soothsayers, for they could allegedly see the future.”  That captured Elizabeth’s attention.

 

“Were they a pair of twins,” she asked.  “Dressed mostly in yellow?”  At Tarvek’s affirmative, she sighed.  “The Luteces.  But why two hundred years ago?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t know myself.”  The young man shrugged, somehow gracefully.  “I was going to ask you at a more socially acceptable time.  Still, I bring official greetings from the Prince of Sturmhalten.  We haven’t forgotten the help the… Luteces offered our ancestor.”

 

“Could you perhaps tell me a bit about this ancestor, the one they helped?”  The Luteces, up until recently, were not known for charity.  Elizabeth would previously have likened them to puppet masters.

 

“Well, I’m guessing you’re not familiar with the stories of the Storm Ki-” Tarvek’s line was cut off, by the wall of Elizabeth’s room facing the exterior of the hospital exploding inward.  Tarvek immediately jumped to shield Elizabeth from the debris.  Once the dust had cleared, he steped away from her, and she saw several mechanical animals with coats of steel wool and sparking ears standing in the gap.

 

“ _Surrender_ ,” one of the metal sheep told them in a stiff, mechanical voice.  “ _The girl_.  _Or die_.”

 

“Are those mechanical sheep?”  Elizabeth’s total incredulity followed shortly by alarm, as a large metal ram in the same style as the sheep was chased past the gap, a man with a shepherd’s crook riding atop.  The beast was being chased by another man, she recognized as Holzfäller, one of Dr. Goodwin’s students, in more casual clothes and with some sort of weapon in his hand that fired hoops of energy that howled like a wolf.

 

“ _The master_.  _Is in_.  _Trouble_.”  The mechanical sheep were looking between each other, quickly.  “ _Must retrieve_.  _Girl_.  _Then help_.”  Tarvek moved to stand in front of Elizabeth while they were distracted, which drew their attention.  “ _That one_.  _Seems_.  _Like a girl_.”

 

As one, the sheep advanced on Tarvek, swiveling their sparking ears forward to lift him up into the air.  Elizabeth tried to grab onto him, but the thimble on her pinky attracted a bolt which stunned her.  Tarvek was shouting as the sheep carried him off, trying to catch up to their master.

 

Despite not knowing him long, the look of horror on Tarvek’s face haunted Elizabeth after he’d gone out of her sight.  She wanted so desperately to be able to get up, but her legs wouldn’t respond to her thoughts.  There were no tears for her to open and pull something through to help.  And she had no guns or vigors to do anything with.  Moments later, she didn’t even have the hole in the wall to watch the ‘battle’ through, as hospital staff rushed into her room and rolled her bed out, machines and all.

 

 

> \---Consequentially, patricide followed by code breaking to discover how their parents screwed up is a honored pastime.


	3. Chapter 2: The right monster, for the right purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “People speak sometimes about the "bestial" cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.”

\---Chapter 2: The right monster, for the right purpose.

 

-Columbia, nineteen years ago.-

 

‘Lady’ Annabelle Comstock was in a foul mood, coming back from morning prayer to the dining room and finding her husband absent.  It was infuriating enough to have him miss prayer, again, but to have him miss another meal was enough to drive her to snap.  Annabelle refrained from speaking and counted to ten while she removed her overcoat and placed it in the closet hidden within a section of the wall.  Her husband hadn’t been a fan of the secret compartments when she added them to the blueprints, but when put into practice, he’d been ‘happy as a clam’ not to have to share closet space with his guests.

 

The serving staff were laying a feast’s worth of food upon the long, mahogany table.  It was the same table her husband would use for the elaborate dinners with prominent members of the congregation, or his political allies.  She’d longed for a more personal table, but the Prophet had been adamant.

 

“ _One_ table, to suit all our needs,” he’d told her.  And would broker no argument on it.  So the Lady Comstock sat at one end of the table laden with food, looking across the expanse at an empty chair where her husband would be.

 

She stopped one of the serving ladies, a lovely young Irish woman pouring her a cup of tea, with a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “Excuse me, has anyone seen the Prophet this morning?”  Annabelle always made sure to use ‘excuse me’, and ‘please’ with the servants, remembering how her husband and her father had treated them as slaves.

 

“No, my Lady,” the serving girl responded, setting the pot down to curtsey for her.  “He was seen last night, leaving the House, but not returning.”  The news lit a fire of rage in Annabelle, but she did not let it show to the poor girl who had done nothing wrong.

 

“I see.  Thank you, Miss Boyle.”  The servants were always surprised that the Lady Comstock remembered their names, given that her husband pointedly did not.  Miss Boyle returned to pouring the tea for Annabelle and departed with the other servers.  Rage boiling in her belly, but not showing in her face, Annabelle carefully added sugar to her taste, and drank until none remained.  She refused to touch the food, until her husband arrived.

 

A glance at the clock reminded her that the servants would be soon finishing the morning chores to have their own morning meals.  A wicked thought crept into her mind, how to get a modicum of revenge upon her absentee husband, and perhaps cure the rage within her by doing good.  Briskly, she stood from the table and went to the servant’s kitchens.  She arrived before the cooks had put on the oats to boil for their own morning meal.

 

The cooks halted in their tasks to hastily bow or curtsey before the Lady, and to their surprise she curtseyed in return.  “Tell everyone,” she informed them, forcing the rage in her stomach to stay clear of her voice, “that they will be having breakfast with the Prophet and I this morning, in the main dining room.”  She turned and left before they could file any objections, and positively marched through the lavish halls of Comstock House to the primary kitchens.  Repeating her message to the chefs there, she went to the cupboards and began to take entire stacks of plates and cups from the shelves.  Her rage drove her to set the enormous table for her staff herself, ensuring every plate was fit for one of her husband’s ‘honored guests’, and folding the napkins into appealing shapes around the utensils.  The quietly furious look her husband would make gave her speed on par with her own maids, and faintly, so did the notion of her staff enjoying the food that would otherwise go to waste.

 

She stood at the entrance to the dining room while the staff cautiously approached.  The Prophet, a public racist and jingoist had made clear his opinion on the ‘lesser’ races, so perhaps they rightly feared that this was a plot by the Prophet to punish them.  When they hesitated, Annabelle went to them and talked to them about passages of the Bible that her husband did not pontificate upon as much, for they did not fit his message.  The parts about charity, and treating others with generosity.

 

Still hesitant, they slowly entered the dining room, looking about as if expecting an ambush.  When no such ambush presented itself, they began to make plates of the luxurious food they’d prepared for the Prophet and Lady Comstock.  Her rage abated, Annabelle herself made a plate, and took her seat.  The silence of the table did not last long, as the younger maids began to talk to each other.  Older staffers tried to hush them, but as time passed and the prophet made no appearance, they did so less and less.

 

Annabelle noted the girl to her right not eating much, and that her plate was a pittance compared to Annabelle’s.  The girl hesitantly met her gaze as the Lady Comstock continued to stare; a skinny young black girl, with long hair in ropy braids.  Annabelle recognized her as one of their scullery maids.  “A young girl needs food to grow, you know,” the Lady Comstock tried to reassure her.  “There is no harm in taking a bit more, if you’re hungry, Miss Fitzroy.”

 

The maid lowered her eyes and tentatively added some sausages to her plate.  “Thank you, Lady Comstock,” was Miss Fitzroy’s reply.  Annabelle was suddenly beset by the memory of her mother’s maids, and how skinny they would be from the poor ration of food they received.  One time, she’d been able to count the ribs on one of their servants, which seemed to amuse her brother in a way she didn’t understand at the time.  The rage in her belly, cooling up to that point, heated again.  Without being bidden, the Lady Comstock took a pair of biscuits, and a hefty spoonful of gravy to add to young Miss Fitzroy’s plate.

 

“I understand you don’t want to take more than you need,” Annabelle told her before Fitzroy could object.  “But trust an older lady to tell you you are not taking as _much_ as you _need_ , please.”

 

“You should listen to her,” said a voice to her left.  Rosalind Lutece?  When did she arrive?  Further to her left was Robert Lutece, sipping a cup of tea.  They were both dressed in that same matching yellow jacket, and green tie, with the same expression of utter boredom on their faces.  “She’s something of an expert on _taking_.”

 

“Primarily in the department of excess,” Robert commented, setting the tea down.

 

“Robert, Rosalind,” Annabelle greeted them stiffly, not commenting on how they had effectively invaded her home without permission, to steal her food without invitation.  “How lovely to see you this morning.”

 

“Lovely to see you, as well,” Rosalind said, inclining her head briefly.  “Though I can’t help but notice the lack of your lord husband.”

 

“Indeed, quite the shame for the Prophet to miss such a bounty,” Robert said while passing the plate of biscuits to a launderer.

 

“Have you seen him, perchance?”  Annabelle feigned curiosity, partly out of eagerness to know what task was so important to make her husband so terribly late.

 

“Quite so.”

 

“He came to our laboratory early this morning,” Rosalind said while administering a healthy dose of jam to a biscuit of her own.  “For a task that perhaps you would care to hear in private?”

 

“The news could upset you, dear Lady Comstock.”  Annabelle’s rage filled belly could stomach no more, and it fueled perhaps a bit too emphatic response.

 

“Oh, there’s no need of that,” the Lady Comstock said, as some of the staff rose to leave.  “I would hate to ruin my staff’s lovely breakfast with such things.  Please, go ahead and tell us what task the Prophet asked of you.”

 

The twins looked at each other a moment before answering.  “I’m afraid Father Comstock wished us to secure passage for him out of Columbia.”

 

“ _One way_ passage,” clarified Rosalind.  The table was suddenly silent as the grave.  “I’m afraid you’ve been made a victim of marital abandonment.”  Annabelle stared at the twins for a long while, her hands shaking with rage.  Until at last she slammed the table hard enough to cause the dishes to bounce and stormed off into the great hall.  She didn’t know if she was crying from anger or despair, but refused to let the staff see her in such a way.

>  
> 
> \---The duality of the bird and the cage is at the heart of post-reformation Comstocks.

 

Most of her time in the great hall following the miserable attempt at breakfast was spent trying to get herself under control.  She steered clear of the grand staircase, or any of the portraits of her husband, not confident in her ability not to lash out and destroy something.  The sudden rapping of shoes on the polished floors made her realize she wasn’t alone.  Looking up from her weeping, she saw young Miss Fiztroy, offering a handkerchief to her, and the Lutece twins at her back.

 

Annabelle took the maid’s handkerchief and tried to give her a genuine smile, before cleaning up her face to stand strong in front of the Luteces.  “How dare you come into my house and tell me my husband has _abandoned_ me,” she said, venting at last her rage to make up for the lack of confidence she felt.

 

“Disbelieve us all you wish,” Rosalind said, unaffected by the Lady Comstock’s rage.

 

“He is gone,” Robert added.  “And will not be coming back.”

 

“How, how do I know what you say is true, that you’re not,” she was stumbling over her words as the urge to cry came upon again.  She remembered her mother’s lessons about how to suppress it, pushing the urge down into a small part of her she could lock away.  “How do I know you’re not trying to usurp my husband’s position?”

 

“You know it is true because he has been a shadow of himself these past ten weeks.”

 

“You know it is true because he has hardly eaten, spoken, or looked at you during that time,” Rosalind said, gesturing flippantly.

 

“And you know we aren’t here to usurp anything….”

 

“Because you have _nothing_ that we want.”  She wanted to be angry about that, seeing them, standing united as once upon a time she and her husband had been united.  How dare they stand in front of her with the happiness and solidarity she’d had snatched away, Annabelle thought.  She couldn’t hold the urge to cry back from the wave of despair that rolled over her.

 

A noise of metal on metal drew Annabelle’s attention, to see Miss Fiztroy coming back to their part of the great hall.  She hadn’t even noticed her leaving, but did notice the China Broom shotgun she had in her hand, taken from the mantle above the fireplace.

 

“I’m going to have to ask you two to leave now,” Fiztroy said, dangerously quiet, standing between the Lutece twins and Annabelle.  When the twins didn’t so much as blink at her ultimatum she hefted the shotgun as if ready to fire.  “ _Out_ , I say!”

 

“Charming as your attempt to defend your Lady’s honor is….” Rosalind coolly responded to the threat.

 

“You lack the means to force us to go anywhere,” Robert followed up.  Without warning, a loud clicking noise filled the air.  Fitzroy had pulled the trigger, but no violent recoil or explosion propelled rounds emerged; the China Broom had been unloaded.  Eager to get control of the situation again, Annabelle touched Fitzroy on the shoulder.

 

“Please,” the Lady told her.  “It’s alright.”  Reasserting herself, she took a step in front of Fitzroy, forcing herself to stand tall as the Lady of Columbia.  “Say what you’re telling me is true.  Why would he leave?”

 

“The guilt,” the twins told her at once.

 

“Comstock was quite impotent you see,” Rosalind commented offhand.

 

“But strongly desired a child,” Robert said, tilting his head.

 

“So he asked us to find a solution to his problem.”  Annabelle’s head grew light from the thoughts in her head.  Had her husband been unfaithful to her?  On top of everything else?  “Our device allows us to see other worlds.”

 

“Other realities.”

 

“Most of the time, possessing only minute differences.”

 

“Green instead of red.”

 

“Coffee in lieu of tea.”

 

“But with enough searching, completely different worlds are revealed.”  Annabelle remembered them telling her this before.  She remembered it being one of the first topics she and her husband had discussed before their marriage.  Her head throbbed, and she felt warmth on her face.  A dab from her handkerchief revealed blood, and a glance at the mirror revealed a hemorrhage from her nose.  “Such as a world where you and he met as different people.”

 

“And together, had a child.”  Annabelle felt dizzy, stumbling towards an armchair.  The twins followed her, and Fitzroy hastened to help the Lady Comstock along.

 

“He specifically looked for worlds where you, unfortunately, had passed on during childbirth.”

 

“Perhaps out of some misplaced desire not to steal a child from another you.”

 

“You’re saying he… wanted to steal a child from himself?”  Annabelle asked, incredulous.  “No, my husband is far too good a man for that.”

 

“Was would be more apt.”

 

“He opted to purchase her, instead,” Robert said, offering her a second handkerchief for her nose.  Annabelle accepted the token, holding it to her nose to stop the flow of blood.

 

“But unfortunately, things did not go as planned.”

 

“And the child did not survive the passage from her reality to this one.”  Rosalind held up a girl’s doll, with the head missing, while Robert held up the disembodied head.  A horrible scene filled Annabelle’s mind, and she briefly understood why her husband wished to leave after such a thing.

 

“But in other oceans, she did survive.”

 

“To grow to be a girl.”

 

“And then a woman.”

 

“A woman less _tolerant_ of her father’s monstrous nature than you.”  The twins parted, revealing a table heavy with voxophones that Annabelle knew had not been there before.  “Have a listen to the words of you and your daughter, if you wish.”

 

“She isn’t my daughter,” Annabelle weakly protested, standing to examine the voice capture devices, and seeing them to be numbered.  Instead of a rebuttal, Robert placed a manila folder in her field of vision.  Annabelle snatched it from him, tired of the twins’ parlor tricks already, and looked inside.

 

She found images of a girl, rendered in full color to her astonishment.  From various ages, young lass to a proper woman.  Three of them stuck out to her.  One, of the girl happy and dancing on the pier of Battleship Bay, dancing with men and women in their swimming attire while she was fully dressed.  Annabelle was struck by the similarities to herself and her husband she saw in this stranger.  The Prophet’s dark hair, her blue eyes, and a striking similarity to her face.  The next photo was of the girl wearing Annabelle’s favorite dress of blue velvet with the custom corset and jacket, with her hair cut.  She was planting a flower onto the corpse of a Columbian woman, in what looked like Emporia.  The third was like a window into her past, the same girl in a purple dress and white shirt, her hair styled, and face artfully accented with make up with a cigarette in her hands.

 

“Are you still so sure?”  Robert’s tone was gentle, but firm.  Annabelle didn’t answer him, closing the folder, and starting to listen to voices on the voxophones.  To her horror, the first few of them were in her voice.

 

When she finished listening, she has heard the words of her own… alternate self.  She had heard the words of her maid, Fitzroy, who still lingered at her side glaring at the Lutece twins.  She had even heard the words of her ‘daughter’, twisted and tortured by her husband into madness.  “What happens now,” she asked at length of the twins, genuinely at a loss for what to do.

 

“Your daughter has dealt with Comstock quite artfully,” Rosalind commented, untroubled by what she had heard.

 

“He will not escape the price for his mistakes,” Robert chimed in.

 

“That leaves only the affairs of this city.”

 

“With Comstock dead, and his heir absent.”

 

“It comes to you to rule the city until such a time as she can relieve you of it.”

 

“Why do you care what happens to Columbia,” Annabelle asked of them, gesturing emphatically, “and _why_ would she care to rule?”

 

“The two answers are much intertwined,” Rosalind said, still bored as ever.

 

“Because to do otherwise, would allow needless suffering to take place,” Robert finished.  The lights above flickered, and suddenly they were gone.

 

> \---Usually, it represents the freedom to express themselves, versus keeping themselves in check for the safety of others.

 

Days passed, and the Prophet did not return.  Annabelle did nothing to reprimand her staff for talking about it, given they had been witness to her outburst at the breakfast table.  In her husband’s absence, she had taken to having all meals with her staff at the dining room table, talking with them as if they were her family.

 

Young Miss Fitzroy had taken to being her personal assistant, in between her duties as a scullery maid.  With her husband gone, Annabelle had to attend to matters the Prophet would have normally dealt with, such as orders to his followers.  She made no effort of hiding that it was her making decrees, not her husband.  And more than once, the mail carriers came back with notes for the Prophet about the unseemly manner of letting his wife handle matters of state.

 

The Lutece twins did not return, but they left the photos and the voxophones they had provided her.  She listened to them regularly to ponder about her husband’s character, particularly the way he warped their… daughter into a weapon against his enemies.  The Prophet had done something to their daughter, Elizabeth was her name, like leashing a dog; the thought of how her own father would approve filled Annabelle with the most virulent disgust.  Fitzroy tried to act like she wasn’t listening, but Annabelle listened to the maid’s revolutionary alternate self with interest, and she could tell the maid did as well.

 

Left to his own devices, the Prophet would have made a ruin of the smart girl who was his daughter, and would have made a female Satan out of a poor maid.  And in the alternate world where this all took place, he’d murdered her, his wife.  It wasn’t said explicitly in the voice recordings, but she could tell from how the last entry of her alternate self had gone that a confrontation would result.  And from the revolution-leader Daisy Fitzroy’s logs had gone, it would lead to Annabelle’s murder, to be pinned on Fitzroy.

 

The thought of all the love she had given the snake oil salesman filled her with a deep, festering rage.  Though she wished to deny it, the treatment of Fitzroy and their daughter, along with so many others, filled her with only a portion of the rage for his treatment of her.  It was only Fitzroy’s last logs, which talked about the same rage she felt then, and having to stay the hand to avoid needless death that she didn’t do something monstrous herself.

 

After weeks of her administration, the leaders of the Founders party which previously her husband had commanded assembled in the vestibule to her House, angry and demanding to see the Prophet.  Berating the poor servants who would go looking for him, only to return with no result.  Annabelle looked on the scene from a balcony high in the House, gripping the railing so hard she thought she would break her fingers.

 

“They’re getting awfully angry, Lady Comstock,” Fitzroy told her, entering onto the balcony herself.  At some point Annabelle hadn’t noticed until then, the girl had traded the typical maid’s dress for a set of trousers.  She admitted to herself, it wasn’t a bad look despite being unladylike.  “What should we do?”

 

“I don’t know,” Annabelle told her, gripping the railing even harder when she saw one of the Founders below, Jerimiah Fink she guessed from the distinctive hat, strike one of her staff and demand the Prophet’s presence.

 

“Now, now, it’s rude to lie,” said Rosalind Lutece, behind them as she always was.  Fitzroy had a shotgun drawn on the twins, who stood in the hallway attached to the balcony.

 

“You know exactly what you must do right now,” Robert added, unconcerned with the shotgun pointed at him and his sister.

 

“And what is that?”  Annabelle abandoned the railing to stand aside Fiztroy, not motioning her to lower the China Broom, but also not giving her the approval to shoot.  Yet.

 

“The time for this helplessness act you’ve learned since marriage has come and gone.”  Again, Annabelle felt a twinge of lightheaded-ness, and warmth on her face.  She hastily stopped the bleeding with her handkerchief.

 

“As much as it was fun to pretend,” Rosalind started, her tone ever blase.  “You must remember who and what you are if you want to survive.”

 

“Then who am I?”  Annabelle’s voice had a manic tone, sick of the games of the Luteces.  As if it held all the answers, Robert threw a coin to her which Annabelle smoothly caught in her fingers.  Unnaturally so, she realized.  The coin was not of Columbian make, being gold rather than silver.  The heads section was of a familiar, but also unfamiliar face.  The tails, however, was of the fossil of some sea creature that was alarmingly familiar.  When Annabelle looked up, the twins were gone, and her lightheaded-ness had departed as well.

 

“If I didn’t know better,” Fitzroy said, “I’d say they were involved in magic.”  She lowered the shotgun to look at Annabelle who stared vacantly into the air.  “Lady Comstock?”

 

Annabelle gripped the coin tight in her fingers as her thoughts rushed.  “I know exactly what to do,” she said at last, starting to walk into the halls, down toward the vestibule, with Fitzroy following.  She stopped at her husband’s office, and went to the safe.  With the code 1-9-9-9, it opened up to reveal an assortment of papers and bags.  Two things interested Annabelle, however.  The first was a glowing cyan bottle topped with a corvid head stopper, and the second was a peculiar weapon in a similar shape to a pistol, but without a clear chamber and glass cones in place of a barrel.  “Tell me, Miss Fitzroy, have you killed a man before today?”

 

“Can’t say I have, Lady Comstock.”  The maid’s voice was shaky, afraid.  Annabelle realized as she opened the bottle, only noticing the tag ‘Murder of Crows’ in passing, that perhaps she was right to be afraid.  There was a disturbing manic edge to her voice when the Lady Comstock spoke again, as crows began to manifest from the thin air around her.

 

“Well, we’ll fix that right as rain.”

 

> \---While a Comstock who chooses the cage will be safe, they will be blunted.  And one who chooses the bird will be free, but do great harm.

 

When all was said and done, forty men were dead, and thrown over the side of Comstock House to land in the stormy Atlantic.  The Lutece twins manifested after the slaughter to help with divesting the men of their important items before casting them over.  Fitzroy was in no state to help, coming to grips with watching men die to attacking birds, a pistol that shot fire, a cackling Lady, and her own shotgun.  The poor girl had mistaken her resolve to pull the trigger with the strength to stomach the result.  But she would develop that soon, Annabelle knew deep in her heart.

 

All her rage had bled away in the butchering of the Founders.  Like she had been trapping it in a small corner of her mind, like Mother had taught her, and finally released it.  It was strangely liberating, Annabelle found.

 

The last to die was Fink.  Cowardly pleading for his life in the face of wholesale slaughter of the human-shaped monsters he’d previously worked with, celebrated with, and lorded himself over their lessers with.  Annabelle killed him, because she knew Fitzroy wouldn’t.  After he’d handed over his journal of fascinating inventions and ideas, Annabelle set a flock of crows on him to chase him over the side of the floating island, and all fifteen thousand feet down to the ocean.

 

As she looked at the formulas for these Vigors, and the automata that he’d hoped to sell to her husband, a thought filled Annabelle’s mind while drying blood dyed her blue dress red:  “I can do _better_.”


	4. Chapter 3: Damsel in distress.

\---Chapter 3: Damsel in distress.

 

When finally cleared for leaving the infirmary, Elizabeth’s first act was to attend her first ever class.  Her legs hurt, and she had to walk with a cane, but it mattered little to her.  She was out in Paris, attending a university.  Compared to that joy, nothing could hold her back.  Her first class was a botany course, “Introduction to carno-botany”, where the focus was about aggressive and carnivorous plant life. Unfortunately for her the course on carnivorous fungi had concluded by the time of her enrollment, so she’d have to take it next year.

 

The lecture focused primarily on the methods of hunting the most common forms of carnivorous plants employed.  Truly ambulatory plants were rare, and only seen in remote locations in the Indian ocean during the last century, but were still covered.  Pheromone hunting seemed to be the most common among them.  A noteworthy species from Japan was the man-eating peach tree.  It would lure people in with alluring smells, and decapitate them.  Their heads would then be affixed to its branches and take on the appearance of enlarged peaches, to the end of supplying nutrients, and factories for manufacturing ever more of the alluring pheromones.  While terrifying, it also served as the basis for the best Japanese perfumes, and one such brand had the sponsorship of the Dowager Empress.

 

At the end of the lecture came their assignment: use the university’s resources to find a carnivorous plant species and document a possible application for the plant.  She made sure to specify that carnivorous plants the students created were perfectly acceptable, provided they documented the process to university standards.  Elizabeth longed to go to the library straight away, but knew she would be lost in the sea of books.  She needed to think about exactly what she wanted to study and complete the assignment as soon as possible, to earn her the time to read in the library later.

 

So instead she found a shady tree on the campus grounds, with a convenient bench for sitting, and reviewed her notes.  Elizabeth read in bursts, and in the time between reading she looked out on the city at the edge of the campus.  Paris!  There were so many things she wanted to see, an opera, the market place, a genuine artist’s gallery.  The fair Parisian women screaming and being chased by giant geckos!

 

The last item in her train of thought shook her free of the dreamy scenario she’d built up in her head to realize in the distance was a blonde woman in a pink dress being chased by geckos the size of a man, trying to catch her with their enormous tongues.  She was screaming for someone by the name of ‘Gil’ to rescue her, but Elizabeth saw no one around but her.  She hastily put her books away, took up her cane and hobbled to intercept the waif.  When at last the two met, the blonde woman was at first confused to see Elizabeth offering her hand, but quickly she took it and hid behind Elizabeth.

 

Without a true weapon, Elizabeth brandished her cane at the geckos, striking them in their oversized eyes when she could.  The reptiles of unusual size formed a ring around them, snapping toward them only to be struck back by Elizabeth.  “Where’s the campus security?”  Elizabeth ground out, half to herself, and half to the blonde woman.  More geckos seemed to be appearing, crawling over each other to try and snap up the women.

 

“ _Ahaha_!”  A manic voice came from behind the wall of geckos.  “You have found something interesting, my pets?!”  The lizards parted to reveal a bizarre Asian man, whose upper body was of a perfectly normal well-dressed gentleman, but lower body appeared to be one of the overlarge geckos missing its head.  “Yes,” he declared, enthusiastically.  “A pair of helpless girls!  And one a _cripple_ , no less!  Surely with these hostages, I will-”

 

His monologue was cut off by Elizabeth striking him in the nose with her cane.  He attempted to speak repeatedly only to be cut off with Elizabeth’s cane each and every time until at last he caught it and yanked it out of her hand.  “I won’t be your hostage,” Elizabeth snarled.  “I won’t be your victim.”

 

“You haven’t a _choice_ , foolish waif!”  Behind the madman, Elizabeth saw a disturbance.  A distortion in the air, behind which a tall metal figure in a pressed blue and white colonial army uniform, in its hand a series of metal tubes affixed to a rotary crank.  Elizabeth stretched out her hand and reached for the figure behind the tear, her hands gripping on it though no one around her could see, and pulling it through with a keening noise.

 

At once the geckos turned at the sound of clanging bells as the newly summoned machine stepped forth.  Its face a mask of an elderly man with a powdered wig and stern face.  “Get down,” she told the blonde woman and threw herself to the grass.  Moments later, the stranger was beside her on the ground.

 

“ **We hold these truths to be self-evident** ,” the machine boasted in a booming voice, while cranking the weapon in its hands.  Seconds later gunshots rang out through the air in excess, as the geckos screamed and died under the machine’s barrage.

 

“Attack!”  The madman’s shouts were difficult to hear over the unending gunfire.  “Attack you insensate reptiles!”  Elizabeth held her hand to the blonde woman’s back, pushing her into the ground more as more than once, the stranger tried to look up at some strange noise, or the sight of an overly large gecko sailing through the air, bent horribly out of shape.  “The gears, attack the gears!”

 

“Shouldn’t we, um, run away?”  The blonde woman asked Elizabeth as the battle continued.

 

“No,” was Elizabeth’s response.  “It will only see me as an ally, it might shoot at you if you run.”  The woman audibly gulped.  In a few moments it was moot as the madman was slammed into the ground in front of them, the Motorized Patriot stomping down on his chest to pin him while the man’s gecko half desperately tried to get away.

 

“ **Rejoice** ,” the Patriot said as it levied the rotary gun at the Asian man and began to crank.  **“For death has no** -”  Suddenly, the Patriot shook and then exploded, falling to pieces all over the madman gecko-centaur.

 

“Zola, are you okay?!”  A voice familiar to Elizabeth called out as the madman scurried out from under the pile of metal refuse.

 

“Gil!”  The blonde woman stood up abruptly and rushed away.  Elizabeth lacked the strength to stand directly up, but worked herself into a sitting position.  She was greeted by the sight of the blonde woman, Zola, furiously hugging a casually dressed Holzfäller with a strange rifle-esque weapon in his hands.  “Gil I came to thank you for helping me the other day, and I was attacked by these lizard things!”

 

“I can see that, Zola,” Holzfäller, answering to ‘Gil’ said.  He examined the lizards, and the remains of the Patriot with quick glances before noticing Elizabeth.  “Ah, Mademoiselle Comstock!  Were you being attacked as well?”

 

“Gil, she helped me!”  Zola sounded positively scandalous at the information.  “Fought them off with her cane until that madboy showed up!”  The blonde hurried to help Elizabeth stand, lending support while they looked for her cane.

 

Gil seemed genuinely impressed when he found the cane.  “Huh, bent out of shape slightly.”  Elizabeth had forgotten just how muscular Gil was until he used his hands to bend the solid metal cane back into shape before handing it off to her.  “You must have been hitting them really hard....”

 

She took it back, grateful to have her own support back.  “Like my life depended on it,” Elizabeth answered the indirect question Gil had levied at her.  “I’ve lived through enough madmen keeping me hostage to know I never want to let it happen to someone else.”  Both Zola and Gil seemed shocked by the steel in her words, the blonde woman even taking a step away from her.

 

“It’s unlikely he would have done anything… _untoward_ to you or Zola, Mademoiselle.  He’s a weak Spark, as evidenced by how easily that clank killed his creations.”  Elizabeth leveled the most withering look on Gil as she pondered if he was ignorant or something worse.

 

“Don’t underestimate people’s ability to do harm,” was her response.  “Isn’t that what all those storybook villains do?  Underestimate the heroes that bring about their downfall?”  Zola and Gil shifted about awkwardly, unable to refute Elizabeth’s words.

 

“You weren’t going to kill him, were you?  I saw you summon that clank from a hole in the air…”  Gil became energized while he reached down to pick up the fragments of the Patriot strewn about.  “Which was fascinating by the way.  The craftsmanship on the clank was a bit spotty, but it dealt with being outnumbered easily and had no trouble making sharp movements-”

 

Elizabeth cut him off, saying: “No, I wasn’t going to let it kill him.  But I was going to let it wound him enough that he couldn’t do much besides stew in a hospital for a while.”  She disliked herself for admitting that, it made her think of Rapture and the ruthlessness of that vile city under the ocean.  But she couldn’t do better if she didn’t admit when she was wrong.  “I’m glad you stopped it before I let that happen,” she sighed, looking at her hands.  “It could have gone wrong _so_ easily, and end up doing permanent damage.”

 

The Patriot didn’t need her helping it to stay in the world any longer.  The monochrome texture to it only she could see had faded into full vibrancy.  Gil and Zola escorted Elizabeth to her dorms, chatting about the adventure Gil had been on, saving Zola and part of the Parisian’s market.  When Elizabeth brought up Tarvek in the conversation about the sheep automata, properly called Bergess Sheep she learned, Gil went stony faced.

 

“Sturmvoraus is a _snake_ , Mademoiselle,” he said on the subject.  “You shouldn’t care about his safety, because he wouldn’t about yours.”  Immediately, she remembered how Tarvek had shielded her from the blast, and hidden her from the Bergess Sheep.  But from the venom in Gil’s voice, she guessed there was some personal grudge.  The trio parted ways once Elizabeth was at her dorm room door, with Zola being so forward to even hug her before departing.

 

Elizabeth couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged, and the random act of affection left her stunned for a minute, standing in the hallway.  When she recovered, Elizabeth entered the room.  It was small, one large room with a bunk bed, two armoires and desks, and an attached water closet.  Neither bed was made up, so Elizabeth would be alone in the room, or her roommate hadn’t arrived yet, so she claimed the bottom bunk.

 

In the corner was a trunk filled with the materials and clothes the Luteces had brought her, along with a purse.  Inside, she found a mix of Columbian silver eagle coins, another Columbian coin with a bird for the head, and a cage for the tails side, and a golden coin she discovered belonging to Paris.  Retrieving a pen and paper from her trunk, Elizabeth set down at one of the desks, and started a list.

 

Since she’d been given money, she needed to determine the cost of living in Paris.  Necessities like food, laundering, and medical care were her priority, followed by the luxuries; the operas she’d hoped to attend, buying baubles and memorabilia from the market, and a means of self-defense, would all have to come later.

 

The door to the dorm opened unexpectedly, causing Elizabeth to seize the heaviest tome in arm’s reach and swivel around prepared to toss.  At the door was a poor man in servant’s livery, holding one end of a trunk similar to Elizabeth’s and frozen in fear at the sight of her.  Their colors  “Mademoiselle,” the one in front said, in heavily accented French.  “We are just here to drop off our lady’s luggage.”  Slowly, Elizabeth lowered the book, whereupon the servants rushed in, and laid the trunk in an opposite corner to Elizabeth’s.

 

The servants quickly left, closing the door behind them.  Now Elizabeth knew she had a roommate, Elizabeth turned her back to the door once more, and began to empty her satchel bag of lecture notes and textbooks.  She went back to the task of determining a subject for her assignment.  The professor had discussed thirty-odd species of carnivorous plants, and would be expecting the less ambitious students to only use them for the considering.

 

It took some digging through the small library of books the twins had brought her, but she found a suitably niche subject for her assignment: The False Antonovka Tree, which flowered in late autumn to fruit in the dead of winter.  The fruit of the tree strongly resembled antonovka apples, but were deadly to touch let alone eat, freezing people solid in seconds.  Elizabeth suspected that the fruit from the tree could be used as heat sinks, or that the juice could be a potent coolant.  The most dire problem with her idea was how keep the trees from using their articulated roots to trap collectors and pelt them with the fruit.

 

However, when she reviewed the rubric for the assignment, she found that the research she’d already done to have met all points of the assignment already.  Elizabeth could, if she wished, submit the assignment as it was.  But no, it was a first draft and incomplete.  Once more she heard the door open, and once more Elizabeth prepared to throw a book at the intruder.  This time it was a woman, who did not balk at the idea of being struck with a book.  She had a pallor to her skin, offset by vivid red hair, and an outfit of white trousers, and shirt, with an embellished vest, hat, and greatcoat, with hunting boots.  The woman, presumably her roommate, continued in without addressing Elizabeth, placing her hat and coat on the stand in the corner near the door.

 

“It speaks well of you that you’re prepared to fight any intruders,” the woman said while shaking her absurdly long hair.  She walked by Elizabeth to sit at the other desk, without a care, and gave Elizabeth an almost manic smile.  “Xerxesephnia von Blitzengaard,” she introduced herself.  “And you are the fascinating Columbian girl, yes?”

 

“Elizabeth Comstock,” Elizabeth introduced herself, slowly setting down the book.  “I took the bottom bunk because I can’t climb right now.”

 

Xerxesephnia nodded, opening her own trunk and producing pens and paper for her own use.  “I noticed.  Quite alright dear, I need the extra height so my hair doesn’t drag on the floor.”  Xerxesephnia and Elizabeth focused on their writings for a bit, before the red-haired girl started up a conversation.  “So, how is Columbia faring?  It has been so long since we saw anyone from there.”

 

“The last I saw, it was on fire.  Civil war, you know how it is,” Elizabeth feigned a flippant tone, distracted by analyzing the rough sketches of a False Antonovka Tree’s articulated roots.  “I left, let things cool down for a while to pursue a personal project.”

 

“If it isn’t to forward, may I ask what project could distract you from a _civil war_?”

 

“Murdering my father.”  There was no emotion in her voice, it was as neutral as discussing the weather.  Surprisingly, it earned a chuckle from her roommate.

 

“I’ve been there.  Patricide’s sort of an honored tradition in my family.”  That drove Elizabeth to arch a brow but Xerxesephnia wasn’t looking at her to clarify.  “Does that make you the new Prophet?”

 

Elizabeth thought it a joke, and laughed at the thought of her being the Prophet of Columbia.  It would have done her father proud to see her take his title, which well motivated her to mock the idea.  “Well, I haven’t been visited by the Archangel Columbia yet so I don’t think so.”

 

“Give it time,” Robert Lutece’s voice said behind her, driving Elizabeth and Xersephnia to jump in surprise to different degrees.  When she turned about, the Lutece twins stood in the doorway, Robert holding a stack of envelopes tied together with string, and Rosalind balancing a knife on her fingertip.

 

“The Archangel operates in much the same way we do,” Rosalind said, abandoning her knife game and dropping it upon Xerxesephnia’s trunk.

 

“Appearing where she is needed.”

 

“And needed where she appears.”

 

“For you.”  Robert stepped forward to offer the stack of letters, which Elizabeth hesitantly took.  “From your mother.”

 

“She sends her love.  Such as it is.”  The lights flickered, and the two were gone.  Xerxesephnia looked from where they had stood to Elizabeth, visibly unsettled.  Elizabeth, stunned by their sudden arrival and departure, numbly examined the bundle.  As thick as her fist, in envelopes of various colors, they seemed a bit thick for mere letters to her mind.

 

The twine tying them together came apart with a soft tug, letting her examine the letters individually.  They were indeed made out to Elizabeth, with a return address in the corner confirming they were from her mother, Annabelle.  “I take it you didn’t get much mail while on the hunt for filial murder?”  Elizabeth glanced at Xerxesephnia, who offered a letter opener knife, and nodded while accepting it.  “Wherever did you go that the mail backed up like that?”

 

“The bottom of the Atlantic,” Elizabeth said back while checking the dates for the earliest letter.  After she’d dealt with the prophet, only a few versions of Columbia would still exist in the multiverse, but without her omniscience she couldn’t tell from which they came.  Perhaps a world where Lady Comstock hadn’t rejected her as her father’s bastard?  Where it had been her to purchase her from….

 

She stopped herself from thinking about that man as soon as it came to pass.  There was too much pain wrapped up in those memories.  The oldest letter she held in her hand, admiring the wax Columbian sword, key and scroll seal before cutting through through the top and extracting the letter.  A gold and blood red locket fell from between the pages, attached to a lace choker.  On the face was a white bird, swooping down.  Elizabeth examine it briefly before reading the letter.

 

 

> ‘Dear Child -
> 
>  
> 
> The Lutece twins tell me that when I am writing this, you are but a babe, suffering under the bitterness and anger of another me who still deludes herself that the Prophet loves her.  They also say that by the time you read it, you will have forgiven me my wrath, but I will ask forgiveness here as well. I was stupid to believe in the Prophet’s lies, I see this now, and ask you to forgive this foolish old woman.
> 
>  
> 
> He abandoned this world to find refuge in that underwater city I am told will not be built until half a century from the time of your reading this letter.  In his stead, I have taken to the management of the city.  I will not lie to you, I’ve had to murder many a man to even get the free time to write you this letter.
> 
>  
> 
> The Prophet is dead by the time of you reading this, the twins have told me that as well.  It will be a regret I carry to my grave that you had to do so without me.  I have started the process of guiding the faithful away from the road of hatred and bigotry the Prophet led us on.  But it will be no less bloody, for these fools will see any attempt at kindness as weakness.  To that end, I have included in this letter a token from me to you, reminding us both of the blood spilled to get where we are.
> 
>  
> 
> I will write to you as often as I can, and give the letters to the Luteces to deliver across time.  It is my hope, that by the time of their deliverance there is room in your heart for me, as I have made room for you, my daughter.
> 
>  
> 
> With love, Annabelle Comstock.’

 

 

Setting the letter down, Elizabeth detached the blue and gold locket the Lutece twins had given her so long ago to compare it to the one Lady Comstock had sent.  They were virtually the same except the symbol and the color.  The one… that man had picked for her was the somber cage, and royal blue in coloring.  While Xerxesephnia wrote, Elizabeth read the letters from her mother all through the night.

 

The heftier envelopes had other items with them, usually photographs of people involved in the letter, such as Daisy Fitzroy, Slate, and others she didn’t quite know well.  The letters told the story of a progressive woman who through political maneuvering, repeated attempts at diplomacy that turned into iron fist tactics, dragged Columbia into being a pillar of American society.  Instead of involving Columbia in the Boxer Rebellion, the Lady Comstock involved the city in the annexation of Hawai’i, firmly on the monarchy’s side; with the letter was a photograph of Lady Comstock and a restored Queen Liliuokalani attending the execution of the coup’s leadership.  However, as the letters progressed Elizabeth noticed less and less kindness in her mother’s words, and more exasperation regarding politics.  The last letter Elizabeth read for the night detailed how she had been experimenting with the Lutece field in the hopes that she could visit for a time, complete with sketches of modifications she’d made to the machine.

 

Xerxesephnia had gone to bed by that time, so Elizabeth returned her letter opener to her roommate’s desk and put the letters in a drawer in her own, arranging the photos along the back.  The sight reminded her of some of the homes she’d seen, where photographs in frames covered the dressers.  Not sure how to feel about that, Elizabeth changed into her nightgown, and went to sleep, to hopefully process the dump of information regarding her mother as she slept.

 

> \---Annabelle Comstock's administration as the Mayor of Columbia was marked by a heavy populist egalitarian sentiment, with significant investment into the sciences and arts.  She strongly advocated for women's suffrage in the United States, and brutally responded to attacks on her based on gender with a sharp wit and sharper knives.


	5. Chapter 4: A life with vigor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There's nothin' like a fistful o' lightnin', now is there?"

 

 

 

\---Chapter 4: A life with vigor.

 

-Columbia, seven years ago-

 

“Lady Comstock, are you quite sure this is wise?”  Annabelle didn’t let the inane question from the assistant bother her while buttoning the stark white lab coat into place, then donning the thick rubber gloves that went up past her elbows.  “We are perfectly capable-”

 

“Of following the instructions I laid out,” Annabelle said, voice unnaturally cold while she adjusted the thick lensed goggles over her eyes, and to not muss her hair.  “But not improvising if something goes wrong.”  The repurposed Fink Manufacturing building they were using for the experiment had been easy to add fortifications to in the case of… unexpected guests.  Gun automatons were anchored in the corners both on the ground floor and the ceiling.  Equidistant from them all was an enormous glass tank, with pipes leading down below and inside a Device.  Hanging from the top of the tank, was a single black metal column which flared at the end, capped with a glass disk.  From either side, pylons connected two spherical emitters.  Cables would have been present to feed power into them normally, but Annabelle had streamlined the Device, and centralized the power outlets as part of the waterproofing process.  “Constance,” Annabelle shouted, “are the cameramen ready?”

 

From a catwalk about four meters above them, a young brunette girl of twelve with clipboard in hand, and a lab coat similar to Annabelle’s walked among men attending to cameras, both video and still.  Once she had conferred with each of them, she hurried down the stairs to be at Annabelle’s side.  “They are ready to document this, Lady Comstock,” the girl told her while Annabelle checked cables and feeds.

 

“It has been far too long,” the Lady Comstock gushed as she took a wrench and made final adjustments, “since I was in a lab.  Politics is a tiresome game, Constance, you must never get involved in it.”

 

“Understood, my Lady.”  While Annabelle went to adjust start the generators, Constance and the adult assistants took up their places, monitoring specific readouts from the Device.  One by one, they called out their station’s status as clear: Primary power, secondary power, water intake, collector arms, and pressure moderation.

 

“We’re clear to begin the procedure.”  Lady Comstock’s voice was manic, but happier than it had been in years.  “Brace for activation!”  The cameramen hastily affixed metal clips hanging from their belts to the railing, while Constance and the assistants braced themselves against the equipment.  Only Annabelle was unsecured in some way as she strode toward the master switch at the center of the equipment, paused for dramatic effect, and flipped it.

 

At first nothing happened.  But after thirty seconds, the Device began to sizzle and spark.  The spherical emitters were coated in rings of electricity that emanated from the pylons, and then into the disk.  A strong wind formed as the electricity superheated the air around the glass tank.  Annabelle had no trouble standing against the storm-force wind, watching electricity gather in the space between the emitters, until a perfectly circular hole in the air took shape.  Beyond the hole was a glowing oceanic trench, so bright that at cast shadows even through the portal.  They did not have long to appreciate it as suddenly a torrent of water began to pour through and fill the tank.

 

The pipes at the bottom slowed it’s filling, but soon the tank began to fill entirely with water.  The coldness of the water counteracted the superheating of the air around the tank, quickly creating a layer of frost that obscured its contents save for the intense glow.  “Status of the collectors?!”  Annabelle had been laughing as the device powered up, before suddenly whirling the shout at one of the assistants.

 

The poor Chinese woman looked from the tank to her paired device before responding.  “We’ve collected two hundred and fifty specimens, Lady Comstock.”  After less than two minutes of active time, that was more than adequate, so Annabelle went back to her maniacal laughter.

 

Twenty minutes later, the Device was stable enough that the maintenance staff could come in and begin monitoring it in lieu of Lady Comstock and her crew.  Annabelle sat in the lady’s changing room, placing her jewelry back on and reviewing the numbers with her youngest assistant.  “With the changes to the ADAM refinement process,” she said while putting her stylish tiny hat back on, “we should be able to maintain the ingestible formula, don’t you think?”

 

“We really should do as Dr. Suchong suggested, my Lady,” Constance replied, ensuring her lab coat was utterly without wrinkles or creases on the hanger.  “Injectables allow us to more accurately control the dosage.”

 

“But without the oxidation, the resulting structures are too unstable, leading into the ADAM dependency problem his customers were seeing.”  Annabelle finished dressing, taking a second to lament the streaks of grey hair she saw in the mirror before marching off with Constance at her heels.

 

“And taking less than the proper dosage leads to _metastasis_ as the structures compensate for the insufficient mass.  We have enough Firemen as it is, my Lady.”  Out of the repurposed warehouse they went, out to the airship the Lady used for her personal transport.  A small rigid zeppelin of gold color with burgundy highlights, a shortened tail and wings, the First Lady was a speedy little craft that got Annabelle and Constance wherever they were needed.

 

Inside, Annabelle went to the controls immediately while Constance found a seat among the lush furnishings.  With pulls and pushes on the control levers, the airship lifted away from the dock, and zoomed through the floating islands of Columbia.   “My Lady,” Constance started, once they had cleared the Fink Manufacturing smokestacks.  “Perhaps we could discuss my proposal from last night?”

 

Annabelle gestured for the pre-teen girl to come up to the controls, before she responded.  “I admit, combining the product with a carbonated beverage would allow for a more pleasant experience for the patient.  But I’m not convinced it will help us solve our current issue of discussion.”

 

Constance took a thin sketchbook from a stylish purse Annabelle had purchased her, and opened to a page near the back.  “I did an experiment with one of the prisoners last night, after my proposal.”  When the sketchbook was passed to Annabelle she saw coded words and sketches of a Possession bottle - green glass with a fist-sized circle decaling the possession logo of a heart pierced by a green knife, while a green ceramic woman reclined above the decal - paired with a unremarkable green bottle with the words ‘Mountain Dew’ near the bottom in white and red respectively.  Annabelle spent a moment going through her mental ciphers to understand Constance’s notes.

 

“High sugar content,” she muttered, “combined with carbonation equally distributes ADAM throughout, best results when cold, sweetness and flavor magnified by Vigor.”  Handing the sketchbook back, the Lady Comstock pondered the data.  “Even distribution is to be expected, but the Vigor magnifying the flavor so much was quite interesting.  And your conclusion, Constance?”

 

“When combining the Vigor with these carbonated beverages we’ve brought through other Tears, the patients have a nine in ten likelihood of drinking the entire dose regardless of circumstances.”

 

Annabelle hmmed to herself while bringing the First Lady into docking position along the roofs of Comstock House.  The House was a floating palace split between three buildings interconnected by bridges and gondola tracks.  At the base were the enormous faces of the Founders, Washington flanked by Jefferson and Franklin, each masking the lifting devices for one of the buildings with carved marble likenesses.  From them, the House was in a Greek Revival style, made of brick and marble, with a rotunda at the top of the central building, capped with a bronze statue of the Archangel Columbia.

 

At the docks at the back of the main building, where the roof was covered in pavilions, statuary, and private offices of the Annabelle’s, she spoke again while the airship was tied down.  “Constance, I’m going to do some experimenting of my own with your proposal.  And if it all goes well, we’ll use your recommendation for the mass production formula.  You will get full credit, of course.”  The notion excited Constance, who waited diligently at the door until it was safe to leave, then rushed ahead of Annabelle to the labs.  While she followed behind, the Lady Comstock wondered if her daughter would be so enthusiastic, if they ever got the chance to do science together.

 

>  
> 
> \---Annabelle Comstock's primary field of expertise lay in the biological sciences, particularly genetics and medicine.  While by necessity she was required to learn a great deal of physics and politics, the creation of 'Vigors', which she openly admitted were created in cooperation with other geneticists, proved to be her most meaningful contribution to the sciences.

 

-Paris, present.-

 

Elizabeth and Xerxesephnia had gotten along well enough in the weeks following their assignment as roommates.  Elizabeth found Xerxesephnia’s fascination with the macabre intriguing, while the Europan woman found Elizabeth’s adore with the city charming.  In their outings, Elizabeth would be the one to pause at nearly every corner and marvel at some Sparky invention, or shop exterior, and gush about the artistry, minor details, or the laws of physics being defied.  More than once, she had managed to flatter a Spark out of causing a ruckus, for which Xerxesephnia was grateful.

 

One such occasion was when they went out to a cafe for lunch.  It had been a long day of shopping in the Black Market for components for class projects, and Xerxesphnia knew of a cafe that dated from the founding of Paris, having survived all ten Great Fires.  When they arrived, they were waved over by a familiar face: Tarvek Sturmvoraus.  “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Comstock, Cousin Seffie,” he said, briefly hugging the fellow redhead and shaking Elizabeth’s hand before they sat at his table.  “You’re just in time, I’ve heard that they just finished some charolotte royale aux framboise.”

 

“Oh, I love raspberries,” Xerxesephnia sighed, examining the menu.  “But I can’t afford it on my stipend.”

 

“Nonsense, cousin.  I will pay for you and Mademoiselle Comstock’s food as a gentleman should.”  The bespectacled man turned to look at Elizabeth who had her eyes bashfully at the table.  “Is there a problem?”

 

“Um,” Elizabeth started, adjusting the thimble over her stumpy pinky.  “It sounds really nice, but I’ve never had raspberries before, and it costs so much-”  The entire restaurant had gone quiet, people turning to look at her in various combinations of shock, horror, pity, or surprise.

 

“Never had… dear girl,” Xerxesephnia said, quickly folding the menu and laying it flat, arching a brow dangerously high.  “Where in the world did you live that you’ve never had raspberries before?”

 

A bit put on the spot, Elizabeth hesitated.  “Um, I spent most of my life locked in a tower.”  Their audience suddenly comprehended, with a collective ‘oh’ drawn out as they pieced it together and went back to their conversations.  Even Tarvek and Xerxesephnia nodded, as if it were an understandable situation.

 

“Then that’s that,” Tarvek said with a note of finality.  “We simply have to correct this grave injustice.”  He beckoned over a waiter and ordered one, despite Elizabeth trying to argue she should at least pay for some of it, given the high cost of the pastry.

 

“Dear, you’d be better off just letting him,” Xerxesephnia said after the waiter left.  “Tarvek’s a hopeless romantic, and would pout for weeks if he didn’t hold open a door for every lady in Paris.”  The male redhead blushed a bit and scowled but didn’t refute it.

 

“... fine,” Elizabeth said, throwing her hands up.  “But only if I get to pay for your food if we ever get to a restaurant I know about.”

 

“Given how long you gush over every storefront, that might be a while, Lizzie.”  She didn’t get long to ponder her new nickname before the waiter arrived with a cake-like pastry, lined with long cookies around the edge, topped with raspberries sprinkled with powdered sugar.  As Tarvek was cutting slices for Xerxesephnia and Elizabeth, the whole front of the cafe was smashed in, sending rocks, glass, and dust everywhere.

 

Elizabeth’s ears rang as she had been thrown to the floor.  Indistinct, she heard shouting, screaming and an awful roaring noise.  The table they had been sitting at was a few feet away, the ruins of their snack just visible underneath it.  Xerxesephnia was unconscious to her left, bleeding from a cut on her forehead.  As Elizabeth groped for her cane to  stand, she felt a stabbing pain in her side, but ignored it.  Once she’d found her cane, she stood and dragged Xerxesphnia further into the restaurant, propping her up against an overturned table and using a discarded coat to cover her up.

 

From there, she hobbled to the hole in the cafe’s front to see the commotion.  Outside, a four meter tall, and twelve meters long theropod creature.  It had dark, rocky skin with electric red stripes that shone from within, long arms with three claws each, and teeth as long as Elizabeth’s entire hand that shone red.  It was rampaging through the street, circling to try and bite at something, someone, on its back and slamming its tail into other buildings as it went.  Elizabeth focused, and saw the person on its back was Gil, trying to complete a strange device while the creature bit at him.

 

At its feet, she saw Tarvek, shouting at people to run from the way he kept cupping his mouth, but few heard him over the creature’s roars.  With little she could do to the dinosaur-like monster, she looked around for a Tear to open.  The ground shook as the monster began to jump in place, trying to buck Gil rather than snatch him.  The would-be hero had to abandon working on his gadge entirely while trying to hold on, and Tarvek was forced to retreat from the maddened creature.

 

Elizabeth turned a corner in her search for a Tear and at last found one in the window of an alchemist’s shop.  She could vaguely make out a lightning-bolt bottle stopper, and realized it was a Vigor from Columbia.  She rushed in and went to the counter, where a peculiar brown furry construct with an upside down bespectacled man’s face for a head attended.  “I’d like to purchase that bottle in your window,” she gasped out, not realizing how out of breath she was.  The creature looked at her, the mess outside, and the window she’d pointed out before responding.

 

“Which one?”  Elizabeth reached out to the tear and pulled through a violet glass bottle that resembled an elongated crystal decorated with lightning bolts emanating from the decal o a fist holding lightning, and a stopper resembling a man riding a lightning bolt like a racehorse.  She hobbled over, snatched it, and brought it back to the counter.

 

“ _This_ one!  How much?”  The poor construct seemed stunned at the turn of events, before a voice from the back of the store shouted.

 

“Tree fiddy!”  The construct at the front of the store began to shout at the one from the back of the store, while Elizabeth left the money and hobbled away.  In the time it’d taken her to make the transaction, Tarvek was holding the creature’s jaws from biting him in half with a rifle stuck in between its gums, while Gil was hanging from a tree, messing with his gadget.

 

“Tarvek,” Elizabeth shouted, calling on old instincts, “catch!”  Muscle memory told her exactly how to throw the bottle for Tarvek to catch it, and he did.  The redhead looked stunned that she’d thrown the bottle over twenty meters and through a tree, but more confused at the bottle being thrown at him.  “Drink it!”

 

The rifle slipped a bit, almost letting the creature bite down on Tarvek, motivating him to uncork the bottle and down its contents.  Elizabeth saw him freeze for a moment before the street was filled with blinding light, and the sound of monstrous screaming.  After her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see Tarvek, floating freely in the air a dozen or so centimeters off the ground, with his major blood vessels shining electric blue, and a steady stream of lightning arcing from his hands into the creature.

 

When at last he relented, the theropod stumbled back with smoke rising from its eyes, nostrils, and mouth, only to be beaned by a golden sphere from Gil’s direction.  Ribbons of brass emerged from the orb and enveloped the beast, leaving it in a metal cocoon moments later, unmoving.  A cheering crowd appeared, whisking the two young men away in celebration despite how they glared at each other.

 

The panic gone, Elizabeth stumbled backward, unable to take the pain in her chest.  Fortunately, she was caught by someone.  A dark-skinned Parisian woman in a green driving coat, with brown hair hanging in ringlets, and brown eyes.  The strange woman grinned at her, helping Elizabeth to stand back up.  “Hello, I’m Colette, a friend of Seffie’s,” she introduced herself.  “I saw how you helped her in there, and thought I should return the favor.”

 

“Is she alright,” Elizabeth asked suddenly, remembering the cut to Xerxesephnia’s head and unconsciousness.  “Her head-”

 

“Is fine,” the Parisian woman soothed while guiding Elizabeth around the corner to where a green automobile was parked, with Xerxesephnia bandaging her own forehead cut in the passenger’s seat.  “You’re the one with the pierced lung, so we’re getting you to the college hospital right away.”

 

It was only then that Elizabeth noticed a blue tinge around her fingernails, and the strong taste of blood in her mouth.  “Oh.  That would be wonderful, merci.”

 

>  
> 
> \---Her first true apprentice, Constance Field, was more a pure physicist, in the style of Rosalind Lutece.

 


	6. Chapter 5: The Game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Evil Overlord kills for fun and profit. The Good Overlord kills for the good of his nation. The 'Pacifist Overlord' is more accurately described as 'The Former-Overlord'."

\---Chapter 5: The Game.  
  
Simon Voltaire had left the Awful Tower for the first time in three years. Fortunately for his minions and agents, scurrying about in his presence, it was not to clean up their mess. This time. No, his aim was to visit his university’s hospital, and see a patient there. Given he was so large, he would have had to find a horribly inconvenient path through the hospital - but he was the Master of Paris. The doorways and buildings expanded to allow him passage as he approached. The sight of new students taking notes and scribbling sketches of the normally rigid steel or wooden frames brought a faint smile to his face. Perhaps in a decade or two, one would have a theory as to the method that was only slightly wrong.  
  
The smile left as he approached the room he sought. No room for kindness or gentleness in the face of his subjects. Particularly schemers and heros. As the door stretched to allow his considerable form passage, he threw it open with a great slam. Inside, he found his daughter, Colette chatting with Xerxesephnia von Blitzengaard who had a stylish bandage upon her forehead, and the young Mademoiselle Comstock in a hospital bed, sitting up only by virtue of a small mountain of pillows. The conversation stopped as Simon’s presence was detected. “ _Leave us_ ,” he hissed to the two ambulatory girls with an imposed snarl on his face. Colette and Xerxesephnia gave the Columbian girl a look of support as they left, and to her credit, Mademoiselle Comstock did not shy away from Simon’s gaze.  
  
Neither did she meet it with defiance. He saw in her the same inner strength that he’d seen in Klaus, in Tarsus, and other Spark lords that had met with him over the years. In fact, looking at her for a moment, she vaguely reminded Simon of fair Albia. He put side those thoughts, and spoke to her, his voice stern. “I have been told about your unique gift, Mademoiselle. It is rare to find something truly unique in Paris, but holes into other possible realities are new.”  
  
“Are you asking me to stop?” Mademoiselle Comstock asked, only to be met with a dismissal from the Master of Paris.  
  
“It is not something that can be stopped _willingly_ , I know this from the information those infernal soothsayers left about you.” Recognition bloomed in her face as she realized whom he must have referred to. “Yes, I have had audience with those two. Wretched creatures, them. Their information tells me that these Tears will continue to manifest so long as you are in my city.” He leaned down considerably to meet her face to face. “And pursuant to that, I would know your _intentions_ in Paris.”  
  
She was quiet for a moment before responding without any fear, “I spent most of my life in a tower. A cage.” Simon noticed a faint amount of bitterness in her voice, an old wound that had mostly healed over he imagined. “All I had to see the outside world was one window, and a library of books. I spent my younger years dreaming of Paris, a city of light and art from what the books told me.” Simon’s false eye tracked her unconscious body language for lies, and monitored the harmonics of her voice. The tricks to avoid detection by those means would have side effects he could pick up, and justify expelling her from Paris. “Through the Tears, I could go to Paris if I wished… but never for long. I always wanted to go back to my own reality. So when I was freed of my tower, I wanted to go to Paris the old fashioned way.”  
  
“You came to Paris as a corpse,” Simon carefully reminded her. There was no flash of anger he’d expect from such a reminder, only a deep expression of regret.  
  
“Yes. I did things after being freed. Killed my father, who put me there, and eliminated all the realities where he existed.” A faint trail of blood began to leak from her nose, as her head appeared distorted - rather like there had been a Tear inside it for a moment. “I… don’t know how I still exist if my father doesn’t anymore. But I hurt people looking for revenge, and died to make it right. I didn’t expect to see Paris, not a real Paris. Then the Lutece twins brought me here.”  
  
“A fine story,” Simon said. The bleeding nose and distorted appearance were referenced in the Lutece’s book. Reconciliation sickness, where a person’s memories conflicted with reality due to changing universes, a severe form of cognitive dissonance. “But it doesn’t answer my question. What is your intentions in Paris?”  
  
She stopped for a moment, not noticing her bleeding nose. “I… don’t know. Paris had always been a far off dream, I never thought about what I’d do when I got here. Being enrolled in a proper Parisian university is enough for me. If you allow it, I could spend the rest of my life here.” Simon stood up to consider. He’d seen no lie in her biometrics, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been any.  
  
“My dilemma is thus, Mademoiselle: These Tears you open just by existing here are a hazard I cannot defend against. Indeed, by their very nature, it would be impossible to try. There are good things; twenty-seven students have used natural Tears about Paris to influence their work.” He smiled faintly at the art, and music they had brought through. “And only two have tried to pass it off as their own work.” Simon’s expression went back to dour. “But it is inevitable that they be used for ill. Your ability to transfuse items, people, and concepts through universes is an enormous risk for my city’s safety.”  
  
Realization started to bloom in Mademoiselle Comstock’s eyes. “You’re going to expel me,” she said, not asked in a quiet voice. Simon’s weakness had always been fair women, so he momentarily pondered of a solution to take the faint despair out of the girl’s expression.  
  
“... I have considered it. But if I allowed the Sturmvoraus clan in my city, I can allow you as well. For a time,” he added, adding emphasis to the last word. “I must ask that you refrain from electives, and pursue your degree with all haste. I can see what can be done to secure you a comfortable employment… but you living out your days in Paris is quite out of the question, Mademoiselle.”  
  
Simon allowed her a moment to process, and if she had begun to weep would have offered a handkerchief. But she did not, instead taking a deep breath and meeting his gaze again. “I understand, Monsieur. How long do I have to get my affairs in order?”  
  
“If you complete your current electives and focus down on your degree courses, without failing any, it will take you nine months to complete your degree. Assuming nothing requiring my direct attention is brought through as a result of your tears, you will have that long to coordinate with the counselor’s office and find gainful employment outside Paris.” He paused for a moment, considering her. “If you cannot go back to Columbia, Mademoiselle Comstock, I can see about finding you employment with Baron Klaus Wulfenbach. He will find a place for you that will see you happy, I can promise that much.” She nodded, and offered her thanks. Simon departed, pretending not to notice Colette and the von Blizengaard girl eavesdropping.

> \---The genealogy of House Comstock is peculiar. The strongest discernible lineages trace back to Mechanicsburg, and England.

  
The Vienna opera house was alive with music and lights, for the opening night of the revival of the Storm King’s opera. The owner had even waived the entrance fee to allow the peasants to attend, some of them seeing an opera for the first time that night. The story would stick with them for their lives, perhaps becoming something told to children and grandchildren.  
  
It was what they were banking on, after all. They had gathered in the topmost loge box, watching the play only for the sake of appearances. Applaud they did when the stage went dark for the start of the opera, but then quickly devolved into talking amongst themselves where none could hear them. All through the play they talked disconnected until one of their number brought up a topic that quieted other forms of discussion.  
  
“What of the Columbian girl?” It was asked of a sweaty man with a weak chin and waxed mustache. “The reports say she’s been seen with the Soothsayers. If they’re real, and their abilities are real then we need to silence them somehow.”  
  
A nearly bald man with a wide, pointed smile and enormous glasses made a counterpoint. “If the Soothsayers are real, and that is itself in dispute, they could lend legitimacy to one of our candidates if they can prove amicable.” The first man scoffed at this. “The records say they were profoundly reasonable, and flippant with old Andronicus, yes, but they still served loyally.”  
  
“Their loyalty did him little good. They stood by and let him get himself killed, didn’t they? The Columbian girl is apparently an associate of theirs. According to my niece, they’re invested in her enough to act as guardians, we could use that to-”  
  
He was harshly cut off by a man with salt and pepper hair, and peculiar spectacles where one lense was modeled after a crosshair. “I read the reports to. One vanished smoke knight, no matter how capable, cannot prove that they’re guarding her.” The others muttered in agreement. “The unique gift the girl possesses, however, poses a problem. Opening holes in the air, pulling out exactly what she needs in those instances… if she gets into the Baron’s service, we might never be able to oust him, even if this scheme goes according to plan.”  
  
“But if she could be convinced of our cause,” started the man with the jagged teeth.  
  
“Then we will be all the stronger for it. But I’m putting my foot down about this.” An air of solemnity fell over them as he spoke his final verdict: “The girl must either be controlled, or disposed of before the Baron scoops her up.”  


> \---The peculiar thing about this is that the last official marriage of an Englishman and Mechanicsburgian was during the reign of the Storm King.

  
Every Sunday, the Sturmvoraus clan present in Paris gathered together in Grandma’s palace, to put aside their feuding so that they could share three pleasant dinners as a family. And so that Grandma could remind them that if they crossed her she would flay them alive as part of Sunday lunch. Tarvek noted that for that particular sunday, Uncle Leopold had been the one to earn Grandma’s wrath but talked himself out of it by hastily revealing his plots in front of the whole family. It would put him months behind, but saved him an afternoon of agony.  
  
Tarvek sat with his Grandfather, the more quiet of the Sturmvoraus elders, letting him examine Tarvek’s hands for the strange growths that accompanied his new electrokinetic powers. Grandfather was from Kiev, and spoke only a little French, so Tarvek and he had to talk in Russian. “They only appear occasionally, Grandfather,” Tarvek told him. “Usually when I let the power build up without using it.”  
  
The heavyset Russian man, with faint traces of red at his temples and in his beard hmmed at the information. “And you say the crystals can be… removed?”  
  
“Yes, if I let it build up enough, they shoot out in bursts of four, growing into crystal nodules where they land, with lightning arcing between them. They also automatically power things that run on electricity near them.” Tarvek noted Xerxesephnia listening in so carefully did not include how the nodules seemed to act as natural proximity mines. Grandfather peppered him with other questions, such as how it felt, if there was pain, how long he could manifest the power, and how the drink had tasted.  
  
That sent Tarvek into a long tirade about the beverage, it had been the most sublime liquid he’d ever drank, and he longed for more even days after the fact, but realized it was likely going to do him no good if he drank more of the obviously mutagenic liquid. Fortunately, his spiel was cut short by a message from the Order. Grandfather read it out for everyone to hear: “The Columbian girl must be under our control, or disposed of.”  
  
Tarvek was the first one to launch a question, “is simply leaving her in Paris out of the question? She’s only a threat when forced into a fight.” To which Grandma coldly shut him down.  
  
“And what happens when we need to extend our reach toward Paris? What happens when one of our schemes involves her by complete accident?” The matron scoffed. “No, she cannot be allowed to roam free.”  
  
The meal went on in silence for a long time, before Tarvek spoke up again quietly to Xerxesephnia. “Didn’t your bodyguard vanish shortly after you met her? I seem to recall all they found of this ‘Varpa’ was the knife given to you by the Soothsayers.”  
  
His cousin, for her part, gave him a look of utter contempt. “Varpa is a loyal vassal, I trust her to return with a full report any moment.”  
  
“But you don’t deny she’s gone missing. Good to know, thank you.”  


> \---Beautiful Euphrosynia Heterodyne was the product of that union, and while it is possible that other couples wed in secret, it is much less possible that they developed into rulers of flying cities.

  
In his quarters, Tarvek Sturmvoraus lamented his own weakness. Seated before an open hearth, he read a letter sent along with the mission from the Order via special courier so as to not be read by the rest of the family. A message from his father.  


> ‘Tarvek -  
>   
> If possible, bring the girl to me when your studies are complete in nine month’s time. Her power would prove an invaluable gift to our Lady if she is a suitable host. Destroy this letter after reading.  
>   
> -Aaronev’

  
And so he did, dousing the parchment with acid before casting it into the fire. The two combined forces would render recovery all but impossible. As he got up and went to his desk to begin writing letters of his own, a Lady and a Gentleman observed him as if ghosts.  
  
“So this is one of the claimants to that dreadful crown,” the Lady commented.  
  
“I thought it looked rather nice,” the Gentleman responded, looking over Tarvek’s shoulder to read his letters.  
  
“Yes, it looked nice, but it was solid gold and all those pointy bits. Ugh, just inviting to use it as a weapon of emergency.” She shuddered at the thought.  
  
“I see your point. So how does this one compare to the other?”  
  
“ _This_ one,” the Lady said, gesturing to Tarvek as if he were a ware on sale, “I like.” The Gentleman stared at her vacantly for a moment.  
  
“I’m not sure that’s a mark in his favor,” he said at last, tone dry.  
  
“Old Andronicus was too convinced he was right,” the Lady fired back. “This one watches, learns, and has not a drop of that elitism that made Andronicus insufferable.”  
  
“He’s still got that romantic streak in him, but I suppose all the Valois’ have that.”  
  
“No one can be perfect, brother. At least this one is less likely to confuse reason with cowardice.”  


> \---Thus it is likely that the House exists in some way related to House Heterodyne.


	7. Chapter 6: On borrowed time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I’d wanted peace for a very, very long time now. After everything I’d given up, I deserved peace."

> \---Chapter 6: On borrowed time.

Given only nine months left to enjoy Paris, exploring the city in her limited free time became bittersweet for Elizabeth. She walked the streets and marketplaces, even the Black Market down below the surface trying to see all the sights before she had to leave. The student councilor’s office saw a lot of her presence in the week following her audience with the Master of Paris; in the capacity of helping her to find a place to go after getting her degree. A doctorate of mathematics would make her desirable to any of the other universities in Europa, particularly when her thesis was going to relate to cryptography. The great minds of the continent desired their secrets hidden and the ability to ferret out the secrets of their competitors. When the elderly woman who was Elizabeth’s councilor handed her an extensive list of people already interested in having her as an employee, it did a bit to lift her spirits.

It also made her think about what their intentions were. Did they desire to have a Columbian girl, to decorate their facilities with her exotic accent and peculiar fashions? Had they somehow pieced together that the Tears were her doing, and like Suchong wanted her to make more for them? Or did they just see a woman and think that because they employed her she would fall in love with them? Part of her wished she hadn’t gone to that awful city, Rapture, and lived among swine for the sake of revenge, before then she didn’t think these things about strangers. But then, she realized that wasn’t true. Her first experience being used as a pawn to someone had come earlier, from.....

She couldn’t quite remember, but she remembered being so incredibly furious when it happened she’d picked up the nearest heavy thing and struck the perpetrator. The thought reminded Elizabeth to check the prices for firearms, both ballistic and death ray, when she next passed that part of the market. Unfortunately, the price tags were considerably out of her range without a means of income.

Or so she thought, until a cheque was delivered to her from a manufacturing company in Kiev, and another from a Warsaw ice box assembly plant. She had to confirm with a lawyer that the cheques were legitimate, as the attached memo regarding them simply said ‘royalties.’ An official inquiry returned that they had started to use the techniques she’d put together in her assignment for carno-biology regarding False Antonovka fruit as heat sinks and the juice for coolant. Apparently her paper had been published by a journal out of Vienna.

When Elizabeth had told Seffie about these developments, she almost looked genuinely surprised. Almost. “How did you even get a copy of my paper to have published?” Elizabeth had asked the redhead.

“Lizzie, I simply talked to your professor in passing,” Seffie cooed, trying to sooth the Columbian girl’s outrage. “And mentioned how you were living in Paris off _savings_ , and the _kindness of strangers_. I daresay she had it published on your behalf.”

“... Thank you.” Elizabeth wanted to be more outraged, but it hadn’t been Seffie to make the decision to publish her paper, and even if it had been the new royalties had allowed her to buy art supplies, a compact death ray, and begin a savings account with the Bank of Moles.

“No need dear, I only had a conversation.” The two settled down into their desks, working on assignments. Seffie, who had considerably fewer courses than Elizabeth, finished first and began writing letters for her personal affairs. “You know, Lizzie,” she said after hours had passed. “I can’t promise you a job or anything, but I can talk to my mother and brother, see if they would consent to setting you up with a place in Königsberg. Probably not the castle, mind, but a pleasant townhouse perhaps?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Elizabeth laughed a bit, thinking of spending her days just being a maths teacher at the _Albertus-Universität Königsberg_. After her adventurous lifestyle, the notion of settling down for a normal life was appealing. The only way she would have lept upon it without hesitation, however, were if she could do so in Paris.

“I must warn you, my cousin will be making a similar offer; probably a restored villa outside Sturmhalten.” Seffie’s face was wistful, like she were lamenting Tarvek’s foolishness without him being present. “He’s quite grateful for the help you gave him with that _creature_ , along with those timely rescues.”

In the weeks since the attack by the Ballkmans Dinosaur, Elizabeth had run into Gil in the middle of adventures where he had to save Paris from some Sparky scheme, with Zola often being kidnapped and Tarvek an unfortunate tag along. When she could, Elizabeth would help him out of whatever predicament Tarvek was trapped in, more than once having to fight off a devilish Indian pirate woman who seemed to be a friend of Gil’s. Somehow Seffie and her friend Colette kept turning up just in time to make snarky comments about the situation Tarvek had found himself in, before whisking Elizabeth off for girl time.

“I imagine he is,” Elizabeth returned while effortlessly breaking down the coded message for her cryptography course. “But to be honest, I’m growing rather exasperated saving him all the time.” She’d seen how he used the Shock Jockey expertly only seconds after taking it, and knew he had the skill to avoid some of the situations he found himself. But the only times he seemed to use those skills where when there were slack-jawed rubes at risk of being caught in the scheme as well. When it was only him at risk, he became an oaf incapable of basic self-defense. “There’s a fine line between a martyr and a _fool_ , and I can’t tell which side he’s on.”

> \---Compound fractures to 95% of skeletal structure. Rupture of the liver, stomach, gall bladder, and large intestines. Right lung pierced in two locations.

On one day during her free-time exploring, Elizabeth stumbled upon a nightclub. Far from the neon-lit scene of Rapture, the Parisian nightclubs were worse and better in different capacities. The ‘Island of the Monkey Girls’ surprisingly contained no racial stereotypes in their risque dancers, and the dancers were even decently dressed. However the customers were eclectic even by the standards of Paris. Clearly a great number of Sparks, given the odd gadgets, occasional multiple limbs, or doting minions they had with them.

What made her stay instead of leave immediately was the sight of Gil in a pillow-covered alcove in the back, smoking a hookah with dark rings under his eyes, and watching the dancers perform. Curious to learn a bit more about the apparent Hero of Paris, she took an empty table, setting her satchel bag and cane on the table to watch both the performance and Gil.

“Hello, and welcome to the Island of Monkey- Elizabeth?!” Elizabeth looked up to see Zola, holding a menu and wearing a pink version of the dancer’s outfit though with considerably more jewelry. Her face split open in an excited grin as she approached, quickly hugging the Columbian girl. “It _is_ you! I didn’t expect to ever see you outside of you rescuing me!”

“Good to see you, Zola,” Elizabeth responded, a bit muffled by Zola’s arm across her face. She was released while Zola excitedly told her about the food and drink available, and how fortunate she was to know the head waitress. Elizabeth was legitimately impressed Zola had gotten such a position while so young, and told her so; Zola grinned from ear to ear she was so pleased.

“You wait right here, I’ll go get the only Columbian food we have on the menu, on me!” She hastened off before Elizabeth could stop her. Elizabeth didn’t actually remember if she liked Columbian food. She’d only had cotton candy, and whatever she could find to keep her moving while adventuring with…. A strong feeling of displacement, severe vertigo, overcame her, and she noticed blood dripping from her face down onto the plate. A hand gripped her shoulder and a handkerchief was offered. As she accepted, Elizabeth looked up to see Gil looking far less inebriated than the smell of alcohol, dark circles under his eyes, and faint pink tinge to his sclera would imply.

“Mademoiselle Comstock,” he said while crouching down to examine her, as if they were in the campus hospital again. “You don’t look well.”

“Monsieur Holzfäller. I’m quite alright, just a bit dizzy.” But she didn’t resist him checking her eyes and nose to investigate the nosebleed.

“You still requiring a cane weeks after that nerve in your leg should have healed, and what the rumors tell me is a chronic nose bleeding problem with you make me think differently.” He stopped crouching to sit in a seat adjacent to her. “It could be nothing, or it could be Nellator’s syndrome, or a dozen other things. You should go see Dr. Goodwin at your earliest convenience.”

“Dr. Goodwin cleared me for release,” Elizabeth said, confused but growing angry. “He said I’d need this cane for the rest of my life, that if I needed anything else I would need to contact a non-campus doctor.”

Now it was Gil’s turn to appear confused. “ With therapy, you should have been fully ambulatory by now. And the post-op for your lungs and back therapies are supposed to last for months. Why would he risk his tenure by breaking- ….” He stopped mid sentence while Zola appeared with a tray. Elizabeth immediately recognized the sandwich which comprised the bulk of the meal - a double cheeseburger with all the fixings, a side of french fries, and a glass of bubbling cola.

She was setting everything down when she noticed Gil, and Elizabeth’s bleeding nose. Immediately she scowled at Gil, accusatory, before telling him off. “Gil, I told you no more dealing opium here!” Elizabeth did a double take while Gil threw his hands up in exasperation.

“It’s not opium this time, it’s a legitimate medical condition!” While the two argued over Gil’s alleged opium dealing, Elizabeth casually began eating her french fries. They were a bit under salted so Elizabeth added more while Zola began to lecture Gil that his drug dealing was going to land him in trouble with the Master if he wasn’t already. “I’m a medical student, Zola, when I give people drugs it’s not _drug dealing_ it’s _prescribing_ ,” he offered as a defense.

“Medical student, not a _doctor_ , Gil,” the blond huffed, taking her tray and walking off to other customers. “Just no more of it here, understand?” Free of his lecturing damsel, Gil pressed his palm to his forehead and leaned back in the chair.

“She’s not in much of a position to tell me how to live my life, considering how often I need to save hers.” He graciously accepted a french fry that Elizabeth offered, perking up at the saltiness. “Mmm, better seasoned than I remember. Anyway,” he leaned forward, giving Elizabeth a stern look again. “You are decidedly not cleared for walking around, Mademoiselle. And if Dr. Goodwin’s willing to risk the Master’s displeasure and cut you loose early, it probably means you have a specialty condition that can’t be dealt with on campus.”

“But this is _Paris_ ,” Elizabeth fired back, at a loss. “If the treatment option isn’t here, where else would it be?” Gil rolled his eyes toward the ceiling while he considered.

“Well, there’s TPU, and the University on Castle Wulfenbach... I’ve heard good things about that new medical college down in Carthage, and if you can get a passport, Edinburgh would definitely have something to help.” His expression became pitying as he looked at her. “But with so much of the therapies not done, you’re likely to need more corrective surgery. Sooner rather than later.” Bitter at her situation, Elizabeth scoffed and almost tipped her cola over.

“I suppose this was someone’s plot to get me out of Paris sooner than the Master wanted,” she muttered, earning an interested look from Gil. “The Master wants me out of Paris within nine months, because it’s too dangerous to keep me here.”

“He lets the viper pit of the Sturmvoraus family stay indefinitely, but you’re to be cast out?” Gil’s eyebrow arched so much she thought it might snap in two. “That’s… interesting.”

“I imagine it’ll be much the same, no matter where I go. Someone will either try to kill me, or manipulate me for their own ends.” She realized, in a sudden burst of clarity that led to more vertigo and a fresh nosebleed, that the scenario she’d proposed had represented her entire life thus far. “Again, and again. I don’t even get to enjoy _Paris_ because of….” The weight of the scenario finally broke down a wall in her, driving her to lean down over the table, cross her arms over her head and weep.

“Mademoiselle, I-” Gil was cut off by the sound of shattering glass from the direction of the kitchens and the sound of running footsteps.

**“Gil!”** Zola roared, outraged, before the sound of metal on skull echoed through the nightclub.

“It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me! Ow!”

> \---Extensive damage to spinal column. Status of brain: Nearly untouched. Partially amputated right pinkie finger as pre-existing condition.

While Elizabeth limped her way back to the campus after the fiasco at the Island of Monkey Girls, two figures watched her travel the streets at night. Hooded and cloaked, dressed in shades of purple, they watched and waited for just enough people to fail to notice her. Then they too slipped from notice.

Untraceable, they moved like smoke to swoop down upon the Columbian girl. But they were stopped, as a third insubstantial being manifested from nothing and kicked them in the jaws. The two assailants recoiled, and snapped back into being on the rooftops. The third did the same, appearing atop a chimney between them and the unaware Elizabeth. She was dressed the same as the assailants, only differentiated by her gender.

No words were exchanged as they recovered from their effort, then blinked from existence again. The air rippled from the clash of the assailants and the defender for minutes, until at last the defender was struck out of intangibility and flanked on either side by the assailants as she landed. They held knives to her vital areas, in ways that bound her to the material realm. “You know,” one assailant said, not even out of breath. “You’re really not good at this.”

“Don’t worry,” a Lady said, appearing behind them as if she had always been there.

“We’re much better,” followed up a Gentleman, flipping a coin, catching it in the air, and slapping it onto the back of his other hand. “For you.” One assailant blinked from existence, in some bizarre way that neither the defender or his coworker could divine.

“And you.” Again the coin was tossed and caught.

The two assailants found themselves standing upon a featureless expanse of rock, immediately donning gas masks as they noticed the lack of air. A third, similarly dressed figure stood at their flank. A woman, but not the one they had been fighting, she was shorter, hunched, and possessed mechanical limbs. “Varpa?” One of them asked. “What are you-”

“Why do you ask _what_ ,” started the Gentleman again appearing before them as if he had always been there. At his side was the Lady, having similarly popped into being.

“When the delicious question is _when,_ ” she added.

“Earth, four and a half _billion_ years ago.”

“Approximately four minutes before impact with Theia.” Varpa threw a knife at them, only for the Lady to catch it between her fingers. As they looked, the trio noticed more and more people standing on the expanse of rock with them. Some dressed as them, but others in completely different uniforms. Most were on the ground, thrashing for want of air.

“The collision which will ultimately lead to the creation of the moon.”

“Enjoy the show.” And like that, the Lady and Gentleman were gone. It was only then that the assailants looked up, and saw an enormous spherical glowing orb beginning to blot out the sky as if it were growing closer.

Back on the rooftops of Paris, the Lady and the Gentleman stood alone with the woman who had fought off the assailants. “And for our good samaritan.”

“You get to toss the coin yourself.” The woman was bewildered until the Gentleman tossed the coin to her.

“Heads.”

“Or tails.” She caught the coin with practiced ease, much less deadly than a knife. Confused and afraid, she looked from the coin to the pair, then accepted her impending death. She flipped the coin, and closed her eyes.

The Lady and the Gentleman watched it arc, and the Lady suddenly had a silver tray in her hands, right where the coin landed. With rapt attention they watched as it spun in place to decide its side. However, it did not. Instead the coin spun itself into a perfectly upright position, balanced on its edge. The Lady and Gentleman exchanged looks, neither having accounted for this. But then, as quickly as they appeared, they vanished.

It was not until a good five minutes later that the poor woman opened her eyes. And another ten minutes to determine she wasn’t in the afterlife.

> \---Recommended treatment: Emergency surgery, multiple organ transplants, followed by sixteen months in a Redfiste model healing tank, then eighteen months physical therapy.

 


End file.
